


All the Things We Do to Each Other

by Teddy (I_am_lampy)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complicated relationship stuff, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I hate tagging because spoilers, M/M, if you're concerned email me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-06-05 22:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/Teddy
Summary: Now complete!When John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes, sparks fly. A month later, John discovers a devastating secret Sherlock has been keeping, one that destroys their brand new relationship and upends their lives and the lives of those around them.





	1. "Lie to Each Other" (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> **If you are worried about the angst and grief/mourning tags, please see the end notes.**  
>  Note: This story takes place in 2018, but I've kept Sherlock and John's ages as they were when the show premiered. Sherlock has just turned 34 and John will be 39 in June.  
>  ~~I will post a new chapter every Thursday afternoon.~~  
>  ~~I will post a new chapter every Monday.~~  
>  Update: 9.6.18  
> I will post the last two chapters when I can get a few hours to myself to actually write the damn thing.

* * *

Looking back later, John wondered if Sherlock had guessed (correction— _deduced_ ) during that initial, shocking, meeting at Bart's how it would play out between them. After everything had fallen to shit, he wondered why Sherlock had allowed things to progress as they did. If John had known, would _he_ have made the same decision? Every time he considered it— _if I knew then what I know now—_ he searched his heart and found that, yeah. He probably would've done it all over again.

That didn't make it any harder to walk away, or any easier to forgive Sherlock his deception.

~*~

From the moment he met Sherlock Holmes, John couldn't stop the thrumming anticipation in his veins. Sherlock was a galvanizing force—being in his presence, John felt like he'd stepped into his _real_ life, the Technicolor version.

So, when they sat down at Angelo's to eat, John _had_ to ask. How could he not?

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Sherlock turned and regarded him with a gimlet eye. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, "No. Not as such. Not a _girlfriend_." Then he gave John one last searching look and turned back to the window.

"Oh. Right. Um. Boyfriend, then?" John asked, then felt a sudden and sharp desire to suck the question back into his mouth. He didn't want to know whether there was someone who kissed Sherlock Holmes, who made him breathe faster, who drew hoarse moans in that deep voice from that long throat.

Sherlock's head whipped around to stare at John, and there was an intensity in the way his eyes raked over John that reminded him of the man in the warehouse, the one who'd tried to bribe John to spy on Sherlock. Only in this case, John felt as though Sherlock could read in John's eyes his every sexual desire, each act, the fantasies.

"No," Sherlock said, frowning. "That's not what I meant." He paused then sat up straight, narrowing his eyes at John. "Do _you_ have a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way."

"I know it's fine," John said defensively. The edge of Sherlock's mouth tilted up in amusement and John felt all his insecurities—which he usually managed to hide from himself—float up briefly to the surface before he pushed them back down.

 _(If you act confident, even if you don't feel that way,_ his mother's voice said, _people will believe it. People will believe anything so long as you act like you know what you're talking about, even if you don't.)_

(Somehow John knew that Sherlock was not so easily fooled.)

"Well?" Sherlock asked, impatiently.

John started. "I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Why do you want to know?" John asked, shrugging his shoulders. This whole conversation was making him nervous, and he was failing to get the information he wanted from Sherlock.

" _You_ brought it up!" Sherlock said, throwing his arms in the air.

"I asked you first," John said belligerently, knowing how childish it sounded, but not caring. His heart beat a thundering staccato against his ribs.

Sherlock stared at John open-mouthed for a moment and John thought he could feel the cold already building between them as he waited for a sharp-tongued dismissal.

But then Sherlock grinned. And _then_ his grinned widened, and he tilted his chin down as he laughed, revealing multiple chins. After a moment, John grinned back. They stayed that way for a long, heady moment until Sherlock's grin faded, face growing solemn. He sat up, pulling his shoulders back and John braced himself for the incoming rejection.

"John, while I'm flattered by your interest—"

"No!" John rushed to say, embarrassed and disappointed and abruptly very, very angry. "No, I'm not—"

"—the truth is I'm married."

"I wasn't asking—wait, _what?_ " John stopped speaking, stunned into silence by that one word. _Married?_ he thought, souring with disappointment. "Married?" he cried. "Why do you need a flatmate if you're married?"

Sherlock looked away, face unhappy. He tapped the tabletop with the fingers of one hand. Then he stilled, and John sat up, instinctively aware of that stillness and its implied import.

Sherlock's face swung to John's, happy, and relieved, too. "What I meant to say was that, _metaphorically_ speaking. I'm married, uh, metaphorically. I already said that, didn't I? Sorry, I'm. To my work, that is. Married to my work. It hasn't, well, left much room for— _other_ , ah, relationships. Yes. So. Odd hours. Dangerous. Potential, uh—lovers get frustrated with that kind of thing."

"Oh, yes, absolutely. Yes! Ha! I know what that's like. It's hard to commit when you might die any moment. Me being a battlefield surgeon and all that, I definitely understand."

"See? We're destined for each other!" Sherlock said, then—realizing how it sounded, amended, "Destined to be flatmates, I mean."

"Seems so. Destined to be bachelors, too, apparently," John said wryly.

"Besides," Sherlock added, head tilted playfully. "You're not my date, right? That's what you told Angelo."

"Hm, I don't know," John said, pretending to think it over. "Chasing a serial killer actually sounds like my idea of a fun date. I could've done without the kidnapping, though."

"Oh, too true. Kidnappings do tend to ruin the mood a bit."

John and Sherlock found themselves grinning stupidly at each other, their grins fueled by recognition and a large measure of shared joy at finding it.

~*~

After running through the rain-polished streets, they collapsed against the wall of the downstairs entryway. They laughed and sucked in deep breaths and laughed some more. Their heads turned towards each other and, with that same joyful recognition as before, their faces drew closer. They were still laughing when their lips touched.

It was a simple kiss.

_So glad to have found you. Welcome._

A kiss that opened a door, but didn't yet promise more.

_So glad to have been found. Thank you._

Sherlock peeled away from the kiss and hollered "Mrs. Hudson! John's going to take the upstairs bedroom after all!"

"Says who?" John asked, just to be contrary—they both knew he was staying.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock said, still catching his breath. A few seconds later, the doorbell buzzed.

John opened it to see Angelo standing there with his cane. John smiled, accepted it, and then shut the door. He turned around to find the hallway empty. He walked up the stairs slowly, unsure—were they going to continue to kiss? And might the kiss, perhaps, lead to other things? Like, removing pesky clothing? Sliding their naked bodies together? Orgasms?

"I could use a good orgasm," John muttered to himself as he walked into the flat. He stretched his neck to see around the door, to the right and then—

Sherlock appeared from nowhere, put his hands on John's shoulders and pushed him into the door.

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock growled, his eyes flashing. "You have made me break my only rule."

"Oh? And what's that?" John asked, his voice a little breathless. How could he not be aroused when Sherlock was staring at him like that? Like—like John had surprised him and delighted him and _aroused_ him, and that he both loved and hated that John was able to do those things.

"No. Sex. And certainly not with my _flatmate_. How am I going to concentrate if you're living here? I need my mind to be pure, to be focused absolutely on the case and its resolution. Not, not— _kissing_ in hallways or, or—"

"Up against flat doors?" John asked as he plowed his blunt, steady fingers into Sherlock's hair.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock hissed, eyes drifting shut as John sucked his lower lip into his mouth, tonguing along the plump bit of flesh before releasing it with an audible wet pop.

"What about-" John said, his voice cracking at the end—his throat was dry, and he tried to work up some spit so he could speak. "What about _touching_ up against flat doors?" he asked, thrusting his thigh between Sherlock's.

Sherlock groaned deeply, eyes drifting shut. He widened his stance, rotating his hips and grinding his fat erection against John's welcome thigh. He gasped and spoke, voice raspy, "That should not be allowed _at all_."

"Oh?" John said, nosing his way along Sherlock's jaw and then licking his way back down. "Rules were made to be broken. As they say."

"Yes, _yes_ ," Sherlock said before grabbing John by his arse and squeezing—oh, _squeezing_ and digging his fingers into the crack of his arse. Sherlock's eyes were intense—John couldn't hold his gaze, but Sherlock gripped John's face between his hands and forced him back. John felt something was being _unleashed_ by Sherlock, a hunger he hadn't let John see before now. "I want to lay you out and suck you dry, fuck you hard enough for it to _hurt_ , I want— _god_ , John! What are you doing to me?"

"Nothing yet," John said, laughing, trying to slow Sherlock down. "We have time. We have plenty of time."

"Do we?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes," John whispered back.

Their kisses gentled, and these kisses were full of promises.

_I promise to lay you out on my bed and decorate your body with my lips and teeth._

_I promise to fill you up..._

_...and swallow your cries..._

_...and keep my eyes fixed on you..._

_...as you come..._

_...come apart..._

_...fly.._

_...with..._

_...me._

And the promise, afterwards, for _again_ and _more_ and _often_.

Only a month later, John would discover Sherlock's promises were worth less than the air he used to speak them because he had been promised to someone else all along.


	2. "Use Each Other" (Sherlock)

Sherlock was always in the mood for sex after the satisfactory conclusion of a case. Especially if it involved Sherlock doing something particularly heroic and earning John's admiration. Usually, John was _also_ in the mood for sex after the satisfactory conclusion of a case, etc.

It was nearly three in the morning, and there had been a satisfactory conclusion of a case and Sherlock had done something particularly heroic, but John was decidedly _not_ admiring him and was, in fact, completely ignoring him and gritting his teeth a lot while avoiding Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was confident sex was not on offer.

"Tomorrow morning?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"I have work tomorrow," John said, brushing his teeth in desultory fashion.

"John," Sherlock began, in his nicest _you are an idiot_ voice, but John cut him off. He turned and stared at Sherlock—glared, actually—and said, "If you want sex after a case, then stop asking me to _help you out_ —" (He did the air quotes to underline his disapproval) "—when what you really mean is _stay here and go through cold case files all night long while I run after a murderer without backup!_ "

With that, he left the bathroom, turning the light off as he went, even though Sherlock was still in the bathroom. Sherlock stood in the dark for a minute and then, without turning on the light, brushed his teeth and flossed.

John was asleep by the time Sherlock got into bed with him five minutes later. Carefully, Sherlock snuggled up behind John, wrapping him up in his arms, enjoying the treasured closeness. John grunted quietly in his sleep, but relaxed back against Sherlock, who pressed a kiss on the nape of his neck and whispered, "I love you."

~*~

In the morning, Sherlock climbed out of bed, his half-hard morning erection seeking out John's presence. He found John in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. John turned around and gave the naked and grinning Sherlock a brief, dismissive up and down glance.

"No," he said sternly. Sherlock's face fell but John didn't see it—he'd already turned back to making his tea. Sherlock fitted himself behind John at the counter, grasping John's hips and pulling him back against Sherlock's still hopeful cock. "John," Sherlock hummed in a deep voice. "Let me at least suck you off before you go to work."

"Sherlock," John said in his teeth-clenched-together voice, "If you don't let me go right this minute, I will pour this cup of boiling hot tea on your dick."

Sherlock sprang back, hurt, and his mouth turned down in unhappiness. "Why are you so angry at me?"

John sighed with a combination of exasperation and defeat. He turned around and looked Sherlock in the eye, and said, "Last night, you said _I'll be right back_ and then left the Yard _without telling me_! I looked like a fool blundering around asking people if they knew where you were. I ran to Greg's office, saw it was empty, and knew you were gone. Do you know how many times I texted you? That's a rhetorical question and I really don't want to hear the answer because I know that _you_ know exactly how many times I texted and how many times I called, without any response. I was _frantic_ with worry! I don't know Greg's number or Mycroft's or anyone else—the only three people in my phone are you, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson! If you were hurt—or worse—do you think anyone would even know to _tell me_?"

"I didn't have time to go back for you when Greg got the call and we were all told to leave our phones on silent," Sherlock said plaintively. "And I'm fine. See?" He gestured down his body.

" _That doesn't make it better Sherlock!_ " John shouted. He turned around, breathing fast through his nose. Sherlock saw the minute he forced himself to relax. He fished the tea bag out of his now over-steeped tea. "I was terrified," John said in a much quieter voice. "When you're on a case, you have no sense of self-preservation. Or even basic common sense!"

"That's what I have you for," Sherlock said sweetly, and then immediately realized his mistake. He tried a sheepish smile.

John gave him a look of incomprehension and scoffed. Then his face settled into a tight mask of disapproval. He said in his quiet, dangerous voice, "Then Stop. Leaving. Me. Behind."

With that, he went to shower and dress for work.

~*~

Sherlock lay on the sofa, brooding over this morning's argument with John. In addition to ruining a perfectly good after-case shag, the fight had left Sherlock with another problem—a much, _much_ bigger problem.

Sherlock had told himself that when the case was over, and they were once again ensconced in the bubble of the Baker Street flat, basking in their post-coital glow, he would finally come clean to John about the secrets he'd been keeping. Now that he'd gone and made John all quarrelsome, though, there was no way in hell Sherlock was going to open up, even though his anxiety about continuing to keep his secrets was rising daily. How could he justify waiting so long to come clean? Their first time in bed was meant to be their _only_ time in bed. Sherlock’s attempts to ignore his body's desire to be with John, had only left John confused and hurt when Sherlock had turned down a second go the next morning.

Then, John had asked if he could use Sherlock's shower and Sherlock hadn't even bothered to tell John the upstairs bedroom also had an _en suite_ because the idea of John's naked body in Sherlock's shower was too powerful an image to ignore. And _then_ , knowing that John's naked body was in his shower, Sherlock had thrown off good sense and rushed in to join him. The case they were on at the time _(A Study in Pink_ , John had called it on his blog) had taken over a week to solve and even in the midst of all that pressure, Sherlock hadn't been able to keep his hands off of John. After the case, they'd positively _gorged_ on sex, not leaving the bed for the first twenty-four hours except to get something to eat and drink or to use the bathroom.

And then, out of the blue, Sherlock realized he was in love, with no idea how it had happened!

Which is why he hadn't come clean yet. When it was just _sex_ , keeping his secret was harmless. Well—not _harmless_ , but not something that couldn't be managed were it to come out. But when there was _love_ involved, it meant more. Suddenly, there were _options_ , all of which were complicated and confusing and would result in a shitstorm raining down on his head, and then Sherlock got overwhelmed and found it easier just to keep ignoring the problem.

His phone pinged, and he grabbed for it, hoping it was John, but his hopes were dashed against the rocky shore of reality.

_Audrey has just stepped out of a cab in front of your door. I do hope Dr. Watson isn't at home. —MH_

"Oh, fuck," Sherlock said, jumping up and lunging towards his bedroom, groaning in dismay at his nudity. He surged into the bedroom, and pawed recklessly through his drawers unable to find even a pair of pajamas. He'd only managed to pull on a pair of pants when he heard Audrey's voice call out for him. "Sherlock?" and then she was standing at the door to his bedroom, her RP accent diamond sharp, and her grin amused and pleased. "Oh, darling, you dressed for my visit. How prescient."

So, it was that, clad only in his pants, Sherlock turned to face his wife.

~*~

Sherlock had practiced many times how, and where, and when he would explain Audrey Marie Havisham-Holmes to John. Words like _obligation_ and _stupid_ and _Mycroft made me do it_ were likely to be involved. The story went thus—Sherlock was born the younger of two sons. Mycroft, the elder, went into Government when Sherlock was still in boarding school. When his parents asked what Sherlock planned to do with his life, he could only describe his future profession as something vaguely _forensic-y_. (He had adored _CSI_ as a child.)

As soon as Mycroft had acquired enough influence in government to suit his fancy, he'd abdicated as heir apparent. Sherlock had only been nineteen at the time, and the idea of himself inheriting everything when his parents died had seemed like a _good_ thing, minus the part where his parents had to be dead. Mycroft had descended upon the family home in East Surrey with a trio of lawyers. Their parents also had lawyers. Sherlock sat in the middle, willingly signing every document put in front of him in order to get the fuck out of there.

Throughout his time at Cambridge, Sherlock thought they were joking. As the dissolute younger brother, the thought of entrusting him with a wife much less a _child_ was laughable. And laugh Sherlock did all the way through university. Upon his graduation, his parents told him that he was expected to _settle down_ and _carry on the family name_.

He was dragged to a series of parties, balls, galas, and weekend shooting events to be introduced to a variety of young women. It took a while for Sherlock to accept that his parents meant business. Mycroft wasn't required to marry because he was an important government official, weighted with political power.

Sherlock's only worth lay in his reproductive ability. After this stunning realization, he put his foot down and made it clear to his parents that he had no interest in marrying now, maybe not ever, and they couldn't make him do it, either, seeing as how arranged marriages were no longer the done thing.

His parents, like many parents in their social class, responded to this in the usual way. His credit cards were cancelled, and his bank account emptied. He couldn't draw from any of his investments without the signatures of both of his parents (and when had he signed _that_?). His brother, however regretfully, refused to give or lend him any money. He wasn't allowed in the East Surrey home, or the townhouse in London. Even Mycroft's door was barred to him.

Within a week, Sherlock had acquiesced in defeat.

~*~

"Where's Louisa?" Sherlock asked, picking his blue dressing gown off the floor and shrugging back into it. He belted it tightly, feeling strangely vulnerable.

"With my mother," Audrey said, walking further into the room.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, not moving to greet her.

"Aren't I allowed to visit my husband?"

She looked genuinely confused at his brusqueness. Sherlock inhaled sharply as she stepped up to him. She was tall with long, lustrous dark hair, and striking hazel eyes—brown near the pupil and blue-green at the edge of her irises. She wasn't dressed for work in her usual modest pencil skirt and jacket. Instead, she was wearing a whimsical pale pink chiffon dress, the bodice embroidered with flowers. It fell below her knees and even the plunging neckline was modest, tailored to meet just below her collarbone. Her long hair was pulled back in a sensible ponytail.

Audrey had never been a flashy dresser, and was content to dress down outside of work or social engagements. Her mother had chastised her in the past for dressing _frumpy_ , an observation Sherlock had always protested. Audrey, like him, knew what fitted her and whether it was designer or off the rack, she wore it all with an air of unpracticed elegance. Audrey's lack of fussiness about her appearance was one of the reasons he'd been attracted to her.

She slid her hands up his arms, her characteristically short and unvarnished nails sliding around the nape of his neck and into his hair. She was tall for a woman, but in her practical suede flats, she still had to tip her face back to kiss him. His traitorous arms automatically slid around her waist, his hands coming to rest just below it. The index finger of his right hand rested at the bottom of the zipper that lay along her spine.

"I've missed you," she murmured. "I haven't seen you in two weeks."

The last time he'd seen Audrey, they'd slept together. Afterwards, he'd stood in the shower for thirty minutes sobbing like a child who has discovered for the first time what it means to be betrayed. Except _he_ was the one who had done the betraying. Was _still doing_ the betraying.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I've been busy."

Audrey looked down at his attire and then back up at his face, raising her eyebrows wryly. "You don't seem busy right now, and I have the afternoon off."

"I—" Sherlock began. What could he say? _I've fallen in love with my flatmate and he's the one I feel like I'm cheating on?_

"What is it?" Audrey asked, a concerned furrow between her eyebrows.

Sherlock smiled weakly and shook his head. When she reached up again to kiss him, he let her, the familiarity a comfort. He could not deny her pull on him. Kissing Audrey—having _sex_ with Audrey—was something he was so accustomed to that it seemed more real at that moment than what he had with John.

Audrey had released the belt on his dressing gown, and it fell to the ground in a billow of dark and heavy silk. As always, the light in Sherlock's room was dim. Audrey had toed off her shoes at some point and when she let down her hair, Sherlock found himself burying his face in her neck, breathing in the light perfume of her skin, a combination of lavender and lime soap. He bent down, cupped both hands behind her knees and slid his hands up her bare thighs, thumbs pressing in between her legs. Her skirt bunched around her waist as he went.

Still bent slightly, he stroked the inside of her thighs with his thumbs, just under the swell of her vulva, her cotton underwear the only barrier between them. They watched each other. Then, she drew in a quiet breath and said his name on a whisper of a sigh, and he staggered with an intense flash of desire. He dropped to his knees, yanking Audrey's knickers down with impatience. She gasped, shocked, and her hands gripped Sherlock's hair painfully as she struggled to keep her balance. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, pressing his face into the dark hair between her legs.

"Sherlock!" she huffed breathlessly. He nuzzled his way between her labia, his tongue seeking, and she groaned and rocked forward slightly. "I wasn't expecting—oh my _god!"_ she cried when he found what he was looking for. He worked his tongue against her until she was dripping with his saliva and her own slick. His cock was achingly hard. It felt like he'd been fighting off an erection for twelve hours, and losing the battle. Now, here she was, so, _so_ wet and open for him. He cursed, and in a single fluid movement, stood and tumbled her onto the bed. He tore his own pants off and cast them on the floor, then crawled after her. Without warning, he shoved himself inside her.

" _Jesus_ ," Audrey moaned in his ear, her voice hoarse and shaken. She lifted her hips and he gathered his arms underneath her, holding her up even higher, driving into her with furious thrusts. Her cunt, tight and sweetly slick, clenched at his cock and he groaned, the sound rolling out of him like thunder. In the next moment, he grunted in surprise to find he was on the verge of orgasm.

Then he thought of John, of plunging himself into _John's_ body, _John's_ hole wet and open and clutching at his cock—everything he'd wanted last night and this morning. He stilled inside Audrey. Her vagina was pulsing weakly—she was right on the verge of orgasm. He thumbed her clit with casual roughness and she came. They stared at each other, panting.

"Do you want me to—?" Audrey asked after a minute, gesturing at his lap.

Sherlock shook his head. His erection was already losing blood. She looked keen, but he couldn't bear the thought of having her mouth around him. He knew that he was using her—she was a stand-in for John, a hotly lush _hole_ to stick his dick in. With gentle hands he pressed her knees together and then pulled her dress down over them, covering her.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said miserably, shaking his head.

"Why?" she asked, giving him a tilted, slightly sad smile. "It was actually rather hot—I don't know why you stopped. I think you could've fucked me through a second orgasm."

Audrey sat up and held her hands out to him, waiting for him to grasp them. Instead, he reached down and grabbed his dressing gown and pulled it on as he sat and then stood, stepping away from the bed.

"I had a case yesterday—wait, no, it was Wednesday. Anyway, we didn't get home until early this morning. I'm just exhausted."

In a way, that was true—he _was_ exhausted. He'd worked hard to protect the integrity of his and John's relationship, to keep balance between his life with Audrey and Louisa, and his life with John, without either of them encroaching on the other. And now, here Audrey was— _encroaching_. He'd just fucked her in the bed he shared with John! He'd have to wash the sheets and take a shower to get the smell of sex out of the flat. He was angry—at her, at himself, at John. _God_ , he was a fucking wreck and he knew it was only going to get worse if he didn't do something about it soon.

Audrey bent over the edge of the bed, searching for her abandoned knickers. She tensed, and he turned towards her, his eyes following her hand, in which she held a dark blue pullover, obviously too small for him. He squeezed his eyes shut, only opening them when she threw John's shirt at him.

"I can't believe—" Audrey said, finding her knickers and yanking them on. "Are you _sleeping_ with him?"

Sherlock was stunned into silence. His control over the situation, the balance he'd so far managed, was toppled. He stared at her, unable to think of a single word to say.

"You told me that what's-his-name—that little _tart_ from Sheila's garden party—was the last one. You're not just fucking him—you're _living_ with—"

Audrey was interrupted by the sound of the street door slamming shut. Their eyes met, and Sherlock saw the set of her shoulders, the martial glint in her eyes. In a cool, measured voice, she said, "You have five minutes with him to explain before I introduce myself."

Sherlock nodded, then he was rushing through the hall towards the kitchen, taking the stairs down two at a time in an all-out attempt to head John off.


	3. "Betray Each Other" (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say this when I posted the first chapter:
> 
> This story takes place in 2018. I've kept their ages the same as when the show aired so Sherlock has just turned 34, and John is 38, turning 39 in June.
> 
> Also, I will be updating every Thursday, but you get this chapter early. Yay!
> 
> Heavy angst ahead. Enter oh ye brave of heart.

* * *

Sitting on the bus on the way to work, John's mind picked through the haze of fear that had gripped him for unbearable hours last night. At NSY, John had been sorting through files of unsolved murders whose victims matched the profiles of the killer Sherlock and Greg's team were after. Sherlock had been pacing back and forth in the huge basement room where officers and clerks could lay out large swaths of paperwork and sort through it for whatever purpose they might have to do so. Mostly it was used for the boring, meticulous work of the clerks, but it was also used for the same purpose John had been using it last night—to pull out all the paperwork involved in a murder case and lay it out to sort through it. There were a couple of 2.5m folding tables, a cabinet full of office supplies, copiers, and computers on mismatched desks. It had twenty foot ceilings with exposed ductwork and it was always very cold—John never could stand being down there without his jacket.

There was plenty of open space in which Sherlock paced, thinking out loud, while John mostly tuned him out as he focused on the task at hand. Suddenly, Sherlock had come to a stop, muttered _I'll be right back. I just need to check something,_ and was gone. Forty-five minutes later, John had realized he'd not come back and texted Sherlock a reminder that John was still down there. After fifteen minutes without an answer, John packed up everything he'd laid out, put it to the side, and let the clerk on shift know he was done. Then he'd taken the elevator from the basement up to the homicide department. Greg's office was dark, the door shut. He didn't see anyone he knew in the bullpen and nobody he encountered knew him either.

John had realized that the absence of Greg or anyone on his team meant that they'd gotten information that made them confident they were on their way to make an arrest, and _that's_ why John was so worried. A witness or new evidence wouldn't have required the whole team, and John had learned within days of meeting Sherlock that he couldn't count on him staying with Greg's lot. In fact, Sherlock habitually ran off without them in the hopes of getting there before they did. Once the police showed up, Sherlock had told him, the perpetrators would clam up, and then Sherlock was denied the very thing he was chasing—the _how_ —that was his fix. Motive or intent meant nothing unless it led him to understand _how_ the crime had been committed. Sherlock had shown him from the very beginning that he would do anything—including risk his life—to get that drug-like hit.

The officers and detectives in the bullpen didn't notice him until he'd started asking if anyone had seen Sherlock. Within half an hour, John, having become bullish in his mounting anxiety—was escorted from the building. He called Mrs. Hudson as he walked and asked her if Sherlock was at the flat. She went upstairs to check, but he wasn't there. She told John she'd call right away if Sherlock came home. With no other recourse, he started walking rather than take a cab in the hopes that walking would tire him out and alleviate some of the physical anxiety, and then he'd repeatedly called Sherlock until his feet began to ache, and the battery saver on his phone came on. He flagged down a cab to take him home.

He hadn't bothered to try to contact Sherlock once he'd got in the cab and headed home. If Sherlock was going to respond, he would've done so by then. _Unless something is wrong_ , he thought over and over. _Unless the killer has taken it away from him because Sherlock is too injured to fight back...or he's dying and Greg won't reach him in time...or he's already dead, in which case his phone is useless._

John had arrived home around ten, after having spent an hour and a half walking, his limp pronounced and adding to the mixture of resentment and dread. He spent the next four hours trying to calm himself enough to sleep a little, knowing he had to work the next day and that there was no way to know when Sherlock would be home. But he'd just lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, forcing his eyes to close only to have them drift open without him realizing it.

Around two in the morning—a full _seven hours_ after he'd last seen Sherlock, he finally got a text. Sherlock gave no indication that he'd read John's texts, or listened to John's at first angry, then worried, and finally desperate, pleading voice messages.

_We've got him. I'm on my way home. –SH_

John had not replied. Sherlock breezed into the flat thirty minutes later in triumphant good humor, the usual predatory gleam in his eyes that meant he was going to fuck John into a stupor. John had said _Oh, good, you're alive. Now I can get some sleep,_ and stalked off to the bedroom. Sherlock had followed John, tried to pull him into his arms and _kiss_ him, and that had turned what had been a boiling mix of hurt and anger into a kind of weary defeat.

The casual way Sherlock had regarded John's anger this morning, as though John was overreacting or trying to punish him, only added to his overall despair in the whole affair. He knew that he was unlikely to effect a change in Sherlock's behavior. Sherlock believed the ends justify the means. He put others in danger, bullied victims and criminals alike in his interrogations, committed his own crimes, however minor, to solve a case! John might as well have been a stranger to him for all the thought Sherlock gave him when he was working. If John was hurt during the course of a case, what was it to Sherlock? _It's for a case, John! Lives were saved, victims avenged—isn't that what's important?_ How could John, a doctor and soldier, argue with that?

John didn't know how to make Sherlock understand what it had felt like, to be terrified beyond reason that the man you loved and were beginning to think loved you back had purposefully put himself in danger of being _murdered_! And even if he could, how could he secure Sherlock's promise not to do it again? What consequences would deter him?

Punishment to deter behavior was only a deterrent if you _actually followed through_ when the offense was committed. He knew that from the army and had more personal experience through his alcoholic sister, Harry, and her partner, Clara. Whenever Harry's drinking became more than she could bear, and begged Harry to stop, Harry would just tell Clara, _Leave if you don't like it_ or threatened to leave Clara if she didn't let it alone. But Harry never actually followed through. After Harry ended up in the A &E for alcohol poisoning, nearly dying, Clara had made it clear if Harry started drinking again, she would leave. The day after Harry fell off the wagon, Clara was gone.

John didn't want to _leave_ Sherlock—the very idea of even threatening that made him feel a sudden clench of neediness that he didn't like feeling in himself. John, no matter how stubborn or independent he considered himself to be, was quickly recognizing the beginning of a codependent relationship. It boiled down to this—Sherlock could do whatever he wanted, and John would forgive him. _And_ , John added, _keep the flat tidy, do the shopping, cook his meals, run his errands, fetch his things, assist him with the work by doing all the boring, shitty jobs,_ and _present my arse for regular, thorough fucking._

 _Don't forget the constant invasion of privacy_ , piped up another unhelpful voice in his head.

"I suppose I could withhold making him tea," John muttered, and got the side-eye from the middle-aged woman sitting next to him.

~*~

"Dr. Watson?"

John jerked his head up off his desk where he'd fallen asleep over his last patient's chart and the crumbs of the cheese croissant he'd had for lunch. Nadia was holding a manila chart and wincing in sympathy.

"Nadia!" John said louder than he needed to, embarrassed to have fallen asleep. "So sorry. Who's next?"

"Actually, doctor, I'm sending you home. You just look absolutely _shattered_."

John's body straightened in alarm. "Has someone complained?"

Nadia laughed, and beamed her dimples at him. "Not at all, Dr. Watson. As your nurse, it's my duty to see that you are up to optimal performance and you, sir, are up to nothing except a hot shower and a long nap. I've already cleared it with Dr. Sawyer and she said she can take over if it gets busy."

John tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling with a smile on his face. Then he pointed a finger at her and said, "You, my dear, are the _best nurse ever._ "

"So, you've said many times, doctor. My birthday is in April, just in case you want to compensate me for my awesomeness," she laughed, white teeth flashing against her dark skin.

"Best. Nurse. _Ever_ ," John said, as he gathered up his stuff. "Marry me, Nadia?"

She laughed, charmed. "Sorry, Dr. Watson. I'm already spoken for."

"Ah, that's a shame, that is," John joked, grinning. "Now that you mention it, I'm already attached myself."

"Ah, yes, Dr. Sawyer said to give Sherlock her best and to tell him not to keep you up at all hours. Put your foot down, she said."

"Ah, yes," John said, his smile grown tight, and his good mood beginning to evaporate. "Well. I'm off! Thank you again." He made his way out into the employee parking lot and from there to the bus stop, where his mind immediately began turning over the problem of what to do about Sherlock.

~*~

John unlocked the street door and leaned on it in relief, accidentally slamming it shut in the process. He winced. He hoped Mrs. Hudson didn't come out to fuss at him about slamming the door. He didn't fancy making small talk with her. In fact, he didn't fancy talking to anyone. He considered going straight up to the second floor bedroom, thus altogether bypassing Sherlock and the problem that had been occupying his mind all day. They still paid rent on it, though mostly used it for storage—John hadn't slept in it since the first week he moved in.

Before he could start up the stairs, Sherlock came thundering down them from the direction of the kitchen door, blue silk robe flying out behind him as he made the turn onto the first landing and down the last set of stairs. He looked wild, eyes flared wide, and John was instantly on alert.

"What is it?" John asked in a low voice.

"John, you need to turn around and walk back out the door and don't come back until I call. Will you do that for me, please?"

" _What_? Why? What's going on Sherlock?" John looked up at the flat, waiting for some unknown threat to come flying down after Sherlock.

Sherlock gripped his upper arms painfully, bent slightly at the waist to do so. His arms were extended, keeping John at a slight distance, and then he shook him, roughly enough for John to try to shrug him off.

"Listen to me, John," Sherlock hissed, the fear and desperation in his eyes dispelling every bit of fatigue in John's body. "You have to _go_ , get out! Trust me on this, please, I need you to turn around and _walk out that door_!"

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock," John growled, finally succeeding in dislodging Sherlock's grip on his arms. "Who's up there? Did someone threaten you? A text, a phone call—did you try to call Greg?"

"No," Sherlock said, grabbing handfuls of his hair and pulling on it, a habit when he was overwhelmed with frustration or panic. "I just need you to—"

They both stilled at the sound of the upstairs floorboards creaking. John looked at Sherlock and hissed, "What is going _on_?" He glanced at Mrs. Hudson's door, worrying about her safety. "Is Mrs. Hudson home? If there's danger, we need to get her out of here!"

"Yes, exactly!" Sherlock said, eyes lighting up. "Grab her and go somewhere, I don't care where, just don't come back until I tell you it's safe to do so."

John scoffed in disbelief, indignant as well. "Are you fucking kidding me? Do you honestly think I'm going to _leave you alone_ to deal with some, some— _deranged_ criminal?"

The floorboards creaked again, and then the _click-tap_ of shoes— _dress shoes, not boots or trainers_ , John thought. He moved to intercept whoever was about to come down those stairs, but Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him back.

"Listen to me, John," Sherlock whispered, faced twisted in unhappiness and fear. "I love you. Whatever happens, remember that, okay? What we have together is _not_ a lie—you are my, my—I love you more than—"

"Hello," said a woman's voice. John's eyes flew towards the source. A beautiful woman with glossy dark hair was standing on the landing, hand resting on the newel post, her head framed by the stained glass window behind her. She was tall—taller than John—and wearing a summer dress made out of some light material that lent her an air of sophisticated whimsy, a navy coat thrown over her arm. Her accent was as posh as Sherlock's and the way she held herself had _good breeding_ stamped all over it. The gaze she was directing at Sherlock was murderous.

Sherlock was staring up at her, nostrils flared, angry, but a look of imploring in his eyes as well. "You said _five minutes_!" he hissed.

"You must be Dr. Watson," she said, ignoring Sherlock. Her voice was polite, but the look she gave him was full of pity, which only added to John's confusion.

"Um, hello. I guess?" John said and turned to look at Sherlock, utterly baffled. Sherlock still had him by the wrist. He pulled John closer, and whispered in his ear, "If you love me, you'll turn around and walk out the door."

"You're not going to introduce us, Sherlock?" asked the mysterious woman, as she walked down the final flight of steps. She shrugged into her navy coat.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking back and forth between the woman and his lover. "Tell me what's going on. Who is this woman?" John turned to her, angry, worried over Sherlock's erratic and desperate behavior. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Apologies, Dr. Watson. My name is Audrey Holmes and I'm Sherlock's wife."

John reared back as though she had slapped him. He cleared his throat and shook his head. He wanted to look at Sherlock, but didn't dare, didn't want to see what was surely written all over Sherlock's face.

"I'm sorry, you're what now? Is this a joke?" John smiled, but it wasn't a happy one. He could see Sherlock in the corner of his eye, staring at him—at _John_ —with that same imploring look and he wanted to turn around and go back to work and finish his shift. After that, he would come home and have makeup sex with Sherlock and it would be fantastic. They would eat and watch TV and Sherlock would make him laugh. When he went to bed, Sherlock would come with him, even if he wasn't going to sleep.

And in the morning, they would wake up and do it all over again because that was their _life_. There would be no woman claiming to be Sherlock's wife. There would be no despair or fear in Sherlock's eyes. There would be no chasm opening up in the pit of John's gut, threatening to swallow everything he thought he had here with Sherlock, and the future that had been theirs.

"John," Sherlock said softly. John was going to be forced to look, wasn't he? The three of them couldn't stand here forever, frozen in this tableau. Finally he turned, looked at Sherlock, and saw the things he'd missed because he was too distracted by Sherlock's wild eyes and desperate pleas. The mussed hair. The lack of clothes under his dressing gown. His lips slightly swollen and red— _kissed red—_ John realized. He could smell it, then, smell her and him together, the smell of sex. He wanted to vomit.

"What—" John began before his throat closed up. He cleared it, looked at the woman again and understood now the pity he'd seen in her eyes early. _I'm sorry you had to find out like this._

John laughed—it was an ugly laugh—and turned to Sherlock. "I suppose that makes me the mistress? Is there a masculine form of mistress? Lover, I suppose. Although that makes it sound too, _hm_ —romantic, doesn't it? And fucking someone else's husband isn't really romantic at all, is it, Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock whispered. He opened his mouth to say something else, but John raised his hand to hit him, to punch whatever was going to come out of Sherlock's beautiful mouth right back in it, but he ended up holding his hand out in a _stay back_ gesture.

The woman stopped in front of them. As one, he and Sherlock moved away from the door to allow her access. _She_ —John couldn't think of her as anything other than _she_ —looked straight at Sherlock and said, in a flat clipped voice, "I'll expect you tomorrow. I'll leave Louisa with my mother, and we can talk."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock nod his head twice at her, _down-up-down-up_. John's mind screamed _Louisa?_ Without looking at John, she left.

Immediately Sherlock turned to John. He was beginning to cry—John had never seen Sherlock cry. He looked achingly young, even child-like as his chin dimpled and his full lips pursed and pouted, those lips that were blushed with blood from kissing _her_ , his _wife_.

" _Married—_ oh, God, you tried to tell me, didn't you? Or started to, the night we met, and then you changed your mind, spouted some shite about being _metaphorically_ married to your work! _God!_ I can't believe—"

Sherlock reached a hand for him, but John slapped him away. " _Don't_. You smell like her fucking _minge_."

"John!" Sherlock said, shocked out of his tears.

"What word would you prefer I use to refer to it?" John said with slicing sarcasm. "Clearly you've had your whole fucking _face_ buried in it. Your fingers and your cock, too, I bet."

Sherlock grimaced and turned his face away, cheeks flaming red with shame. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"No! Do _not_ tell me you're sorry!" John bellowed.

Sherlock stepped back, but then reached for John again, and said, "Let me ex—"

" _No_ ," John said again, quieter. "No, I don't—go away. Go— _shower._ Just—get away from me."

Sherlock frowned and waited for one long, eternal moment until John yelled, "Get the _fuck_ away from me!" Only then did Sherlock turn, reluctantly, and slowly made his way upstairs.

As soon as Sherlock was out of sight, John bent at the waist, choking back tears, his fist clenched against his stomach. He tried to breathe through the agony. He needed to get moving, to walk—that was it. If he stood here any longer he would crumple to the floor, he would fall the fuck apart and then Sherlock would want to fix him, like he'd fixed his limp, like he'd fixed his loneliness, like he'd fixed the whole fucking world for John, turning it from grey to color, flat to vibrant.

He wanted to scream and scream until his throat was raw, caught in the violence of sorrow and anger mixed together, a maelstrom of grey walls and jagged edges— _but you knew he was capable of something like this_ , a mean, shrewish voice said to him, _your mistake was believing you were special to him._

He let himself fall apart for one minute—sixty seconds—he counted them out in his head—and then he dropped his keys and his phone on the floor next to his briefcase. With only his wallet in hand, he fled out into the chilly London afternoon, that same voice in his head screeching at him to _give Sherlock what he deserves—punishment, retribution, vengeance_.

 _No_ , John thought. _There's no point anymore_.


	4. "Abandon Each Other" (Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that "heavy angst" and the "grief/mourning" tags? We're going to be in the thick of it for this chapter and the two following it. If you're really not up for the pain, I would suggest waiting until chapter 7 is posted to pick up the story again.
> 
> You should click on the link for the song at the end. The video shows two women together, which I think is apropos for this story. Because, you know, LGBTQ. 
> 
> Next chapter will be posted July 26th.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, a dull buzz in his brain. Words and images from the past twenty-four hours whirled and twisted in his mind, but none of them slowed enough for him to grab onto and study. ( _You smell like her fucking_ minge.) Sherlock winced. Part of him had wanted to defend Audrey, to say, _that's my wife!_ The icy calm with which Audrey had behaved once she'd come down the stairs threw him off, too. Audrey was terrible at hiding her emotions, much like John (and wasn't _that_ food for thought), and she wasn't the typical aristocratic wife. She wasn't chilly or backstabbing or false in her friendship. She was sometimes, he thought, far too innocent for the society in which they lived. Again, like John.

_Don't think about it._

With no other direction for how to proceed from this point, Sherlock did what he'd already planned to do after Audrey left, but before John got home—change the sheets, shower, and take everything that smelled like her down to the utility room across from 221C, where the washer and dryer were.

As he did all that, he felt numb. He didn't think about anything beyond what he was doing. Step one, pull off the pillowcases. Step two, pull off the sheets. The duvet had, thankfully, been kicked onto the floor by his feet as he'd crawled on the bed towards his wife only, what—maybe twenty minutes ago? _Don't think about that. Just think about putting on new bed linen_. He worked methodically through the chore and when he was done, he piled it all by the kitchen door. He put his dressing gown in a laundry bag and added it to the pile. Then he went to shower.

Washing his hair, scrubbing his body, all that he did methodically, too. He washed his face twice as well as his pubic hair, his penis, around his balls. He gently pulled back his foreskin and cleaned that twice as well, soaped and rinsed, soaped and rinsed, making sure no soap remained to cause irritation. He reached back to clean between his arse cheeks, down his legs, between his toes. All these actions were automatic, things he'd done daily for twenty-five years, since he was old enough to do it all for himself.

Sherlock dried off, then wiped the steam from the mirror. He brushed and flossed, lifted his arms and rolled on antiperspirant. Before his hair could dry on the ends, he took down the anti-frizz serum he used, squeezed a dollop in the middle of his palm, rubbed his hands together briskly, then finger combed it through his hair. He washed his hands, got out his shaving gel and fitted a new blade on his razor. He worked up a good lather and spread it on his face. When he picked up his razor he realized his hands were shaking. He stared at them in confusion. Why were they shaking? Oh, right. He wasn't thinking about that. Instead, Sherlock very carefully and slowly, allowing for the tremor in his hands, shaved his face. He patted on a bit of what John called his _poncy_ aftershave.

_Don't think. Just get dressed._

Sherlock picked out a suit, then a shirt, boxer briefs, black cashmere socks, Italian leather Oxfords and donned each item with precision and attention to detail. Every bit of lint or crease was removed or steamed out. Sherlock checked himself in the mirror, using his fingers to artfully arrange a few wayward curls. He looked the way he always did when he dressed like this—wealthy, well-bred, good-looking, and brilliant with the exception of one thing he'd never seen in this mirror before now—heartbroken.

If John was leaving him, Sherlock wasn't going to allow it to happen while he was in his pajamas.

Two hours later, Sherlock had put the last of the sheets tainted with the evidence of his betrayal in the dryer. He had already folded and put away the rest in the linen closet. His dressing gown would have to be sent out for dry cleaning, although he suspected a good airing-out would be all it needed for John's nose to approve it as Audrey-free. Sherlock could smell it, though. Could smell _her_.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself. _One thing at a time_ , he told himself. _Deal with John first and Audrey later_. After all, Audrey wasn't going anywhere and their marriage had survived infidelity before, his _and_ hers. Although he supposed that his was worse because it wasn't about sex—unlike Paul, the _tart from Sheila's garden party_ that Audrey had mentioned. He'd thought _that_ was a nightmare with Audrey threatening to divorce him and take Louisa away. _Louisa_ , he thought, feeling the tears threaten to fall. He cleared his throat. _Don't think_. They came anyway.

He sat in his chair, silently crying, and waited for John to come home.

~*~

Sherlock waited as the day dragged on, as the winter sun gave up the ghost and the cold dark seeped into the sitting room. In his mind he carefully went over all the details of the situation as though it were a case, and composed what he wanted to say to John when he finally came home. An apology, certainly. Explanation for his deception, obviously. And the rest— _I love you. Please don't leave me_.

He waited.

~*~

When John finally arrived a little before midnight, Sherlock hadn't moved from his chair. John walked into the sitting room and switched on a lamp and Sherlock winced at the sudden light. John seemed startled to see him. They stared at each other for a moment.

"You're gonna want to talk about this," John said, rubbing his hand over his mouth. He'd been drinking, but he wasn't drunk.

"Can we?" Sherlock asked tentatively. He stood and walked to the middle of the sitting room, but came no closer to John. "Talk, that is? I know you're angry and—"

"No, Sherlock," John said in a slow, heavy voice. "I'm not angry. Well, I am. Yes. But I'm too tired right now to be angry. I'm too tired to be anything except— _tired_. I just want to go to bed and sleep."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, nodding madly, eager to soothe John in any way. "The bed is—I changed the sheets. I showered, too, and, and—I've already washed the dirty ones and put them away in the linen cupboard."

"Good, good," John said without looking at him and then there was silence. John didn't seem to be looking at anything. His eyes were fixed down and to the side where a stack of his medical journals sat on the floor.

After a minute of silence during which Sherlock watched John and John stared at copies of _The New England Journal of Medicine_ and _Nature_ , Sherlock finally spoke. "I can sleep upstairs if it—"

"Don't care," John said, shaking his head side to side in a slow, almost lazy way.

"Right," Sherlock murmured, confused. He didn't care if Sherlock slept upstairs? Or, he didn't care where Sherlock slept _at all_? Probably the latter. "Can we talk in the morning, then? I hate to push, but I'm sure you agree it must be talked about."

"I don't know," John said, doing that slow casual head shake again and still staring at the journals.

"Would you like some tea? Or, since you're tired, I can make some chamomile tea. We still have chamomile, right?"

"How long would it have been before you told me if I hadn't walked in on you today?"

Sherlock had already started for the kitchen and he tensed, halted, and turned towards John who was finally looking at him. He took a deep breath. "I'd planned to tell you when we were through with the case, but after last night you were so angry, and this morning, too—I was thinking about you, about us and all—Audrey, all that, when Mycroft texted me and said she was on her way. It was a surprise, she surprised me, that is. I hadn't—"

"I don't care about all that," John said, slashing his hand through the air. "I want to know—if I hadn't come home early from work, when would you have told me about her?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it. He was wringing his hands and he forced himself to stop. "I didn't have a plan B."

"Plan _B_?" John laughed harshly. "You didn't have a plan B. Yeah, okay. I get it."

"Well, I didn't actually get much of a chance to think of one, did I?" Sherlock snapped, surprising himself with the intensity of his anger. Then, all in a rush, he spoke, barely stopping for a breath. "You left this morning and I spent most of it trying to figure out how to make amends for what I'd done. It took me awhile to come down from the case high. I was still— _affected_ —this morning and after I'd paced the flat and worked out some of that energy, I realized the extent of what I'd done to you last night. I was going to apologize when you came home. I was brooding, trying to think of ways I could make it up to you. Then Audrey showed up unannounced and, well—you know."

Suddenly, John was on the move through the sitting room, into the kitchen and beyond. Sherlock wasn't sure it was okay to follow him, but he couldn't stop himself from doing so. When he stepped inside the bedroom, John was sitting on the bed in the dark.

"You fucked her," John said, his voice breaking at the end. "In this bed, you fucked her. You stuffed your _face_ in her cunt. I could smell it all over you." John's words were angry, but his voice was only sad. "Were you—have you been fucking her all along?"

"Only one other time, a couple of weeks ago when I went to visit Louisa."

"Who's Louisa?" John asked, sounding annoyed.

"Ah," Sherlock said, realizing he'd run right off the script without meaning to. "Louisa is my daughter."

"You have a fucking _daughter,_ too? Unbelievable!" John cried.

Sherlock reached over to turn on the lamp. John was staring at him with tired, sad eyes. His whole face was creased in pain. Sherlock felt his throat trying to work, and he tried to hold back his own tears but couldn't. He'd been waiting all day—no, all _month_ —waiting to talk to John about this very thing, but it wasn't supposed to have been like this. He wanted to tell John about his daughter, who was brilliant, and curious, and already, at only seven years old, had a sly sense of humor surprisingly adult.

"How old is she?" John asked in his broken, sad voice.

"Seven," Sherlock whispered.

"Oh my god," John said. "How _long_ have you been married?"

"Ten years."

Sherlock watched John's eyes close. His lips trembled and his brow was furrowed, but there was a brief few seconds during which Sherlock thought he'd gotten himself under control before John's face crumpled entirely and he put his face in his hands and wept. He was almost silent, his shoulders heaving. Sherlock was crying in sympathy, but he was much more vocal about it, could feel keening sounds that he hated hearing himself make. _The wailing of tongues and gnashing of teeth_. He found himself unable to stay away from John and sat beside him on the bed. Sherlock leaned against him slightly, just enough to invite John to lean against him as well. Miraculously, he did.

By stages, Sherlock wrapped him up in his arms and laid them down, and eventually, John's head was stuffed into Sherlock's neck and Sherlock's face was pressed against John's head and he repeated _I'm sorry, I love you,_ into John's hair.

John pulled away, and got out of bed. Sherlock wanted to ask where he was going, but felt he didn't have the right. John ducked into the bathroom, and blew his nose. He came back out with a roll of loo paper and tossed it on the bed. He stood against the wall with his arms crossed. The tender, heartbroken John from only a few minutes ago was replaced by the angry, heartbroken John.

"Were you in love with Audrey when you married her?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated, but then said, quietly, "I was, yes. Well, I loved her at any rate, but I didn't know what it really meant to be _in love_ until I met you. The night you and I met—you have to understand, John—I was overcome, absolutely _sick_ with desire for you, but I didn't tell you I was married because I didn't think it mattered at that point."

"Of course it mattered!" John yelled, leaning forward with the force of his sudden rage. "There is no _point_ where something like that doesn't matter!"

"It was supposed to be a one-night stand!" Sherlock said, a feeble defense, he knew.

"Then why did you keep. Having. Sex. With. Me," John said, voice suddenly low and dark.

Sherlock looked away and couldn't answer. He stood up, not wanting to stay seated while John was standing. He cleared his throat and decided there wasn't any point in holding off the inevitable. He let out a deep sigh, steeling himself, then turned to John. "There have been—indiscretions on my part during my marriage to Audrey. At first, I considered you just that." John scoffed and shook his head in disbelief but Sherlock held up his hand. "Please, John. You asked me a question, so allow me to answer. Believe me when I say that what I'm about to tell you paints me in an even worse light than what you already see.

"I have cheated on Audrey a total of four times since we were married, not including you. These—I hesitate to call them relationships, more like _assignations_ , I suppose—never last more than a few weeks. Audrey knows about two of them. The other two she's never discovered and I never told her."

"Wow, you're a stand-up husband, aren't you?" John sneered.

"You asked me why I kept having sex with you, John," Sherlock snapped impatiently. "Do you want to know the answer or not?"

"I didn't think the answer would require a history of your sexual escapades. Oh, and let's not forget the proof that you're completely untrustworthy and an absolutely heartless bastard."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, feeling his back molars grind against each other. His nostrils flared and he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Fine," he said tightly, stalking towards John as he did so. "I couldn't keep my hands off of you, okay? You were like a drug—I kept telling myself _this is the last time_ and then I'd see you across the room or crouching over a corpse with me or coming downstairs all rumpled and warm from sleep, and I would lose all control. Do you know how hard it is for me to lose control, John? You're well aware of my disregard for the needs of my transport, especially during a case. I won't eat or sleep, but I can only hold out, maybe a day at most, when it comes to touching you, and even the most casual of touches makes me want to touch you _more_ ," he said and loomed over John. "Even now, I want to touch you. But at some point it stopped being _only_ about sex and became so much more," Sherlock shook his head in sorrow, "So much _more_. I didn't realize it until a couple of weeks ago when I went to the townhouse, mine and Audrey's, to spend time with her and Louisa. She and I slept together. Afterwards, I felt filthy, disgusted with myself, heartbroken because I felt like I'd cheated on _you_! I've slept with a lover and felt guilty for betraying my wife, but I've never slept with my _wife_ and felt as though I'd betrayed my _lover_.

"So when you ask me why I didn't tell you I was married, John, it was because I couldn't—I didn't want to _lose_ you." Sherlock shuddered with the power of his own emotions, terrified at the way he was spilling so much ugly _truth_ when it could only strengthen the case against him. "After that night, I knew I needed to tell you. I'd _planned_ to tell you today—the irony, right? I was sure you'd understand that it's not as simple as just getting a divorce. We have a _child_ together, a ten year marriage and we knew each other for two years before that." Sherlock collapsed on the bed, letting his head fall into his hands. "I want you to have your answers, whatever answers you need, John. I don't want to hold back, even if it'll make me look bad—well, _worse_ than I already look. Or am. I'm not _bad_ , though. Am I?"

"Don't do that, don't—if I say _no, you're not bad_ then you'll hold it against me when I'm angry, but I can't say you _are_ bad because then I sound like a selfish, unforgiving arsehole."

"You're right. I'm sorry. And for the record, you aren't a selfish, unforgiving arsehole. I think our time together has shown you are, in fact, the complete opposite. You have put up with me—well, there's no excuse for the ways I've treated you, but it was my cowardly way of hoping you'd get fed up, and leave and thus divest me of the responsibility of coming clean."

" _Ohhh_ , well that explains a lot, actually. You're like that with everyone else, so I figured you were just—"

"No, for you I added on an extra helping of pretentious arsehole."

 John's smile was genuine but short-lived. He rubbed his face with both hands and then gestured at the bed. "I'm very tired, Sherlock. I just want to sleep for now." Sherlock stood up, moving out of the way so John could settle on his side of the bed. He took the spot Sherlock had just vacated and pulled off his shoes and socks then stood up and stripped down to his boxers. He got under the covers.

"Are you staying?" Sherlock asked, the neediness in his voice unmistakable.

John groaned. "God, Sherlock, I just need to _sleep_!"

"Can I sleep with you?" Sherlock found himself wringing his hand again, but didn't stop this time.

"I don't care," John said, his voice already losing steam. He reached up and clicked off the lamp.

Sherlock undressed in the dark, and, naked, slid up behind John. He settled his hand on John's hip and when John didn't push him away, he gingerly scooted closer. Not as close as he wanted, but he was closer than he thought he'd get. He didn't plan on falling asleep, but at some point in the early morning, he could no longer fight his own fatigue. He woke up at nine, his heart pounding with anxiety. He was alone. With a feeling of rising dread, he looked into the wardrobe and found some of John's clothes missing. The same was true for the drawers where John's underwear, socks, and jeans were kept. Not all of John's clothes were gone, which gave Sherlock hope, however tenuous.

In the sitting room, John's laptop, phone, and chargers were also missing. There was a note in John's chair which Sherlock grabbed eagerly for. There were only two lines.

_Don't contact me. I'll send someone to pick up the rest of my things._

_~*~_

> I like that you're broken  
>  Broken like me  
>  Maybe that makes me a fool  
>  I like that you're lonely  
>  Lonely like me  
>  I could be lonely with you
> 
> Life is not a love song that we like  
>  We're all broken pieces floating by  
>  Life is not a love song, we can try  
>  To fix our broken pieces one at a time
> 
> -["Broken" by lovelytheband](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AToJekZdLIE)


	5. "Lose Each Other" (Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note on error in Chapter 3:** At the end, Audrey says she'll take the day off the following day and she and Sherlock can talk while Louisa is at school, but Chapter 3 and 4 take place on a Friday. I've corrected the line so that Audrey instead says she'll take Louisa to her mother's house.
> 
> **Temporary change in posting schedule:** Both my children have a birthday this week, so Chapter 6 won't be posted until Thursday, August 9th.
> 
> **For sensitive readers:** ~~this chapter is angst-free, but acts as a turning point in the plot. From here on out, the angst between John and Sherlock rapidly disappears, but Chapter 6 is where the Grief/Mourning tag becomes relevant.~~ I lied. The angst goes on and on and on...

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of the row of terraced houses on Powis Square where he'd lived with Audrey up until six months ago. Six months ago he'd had a two week fling with Paul, the younger brother of a friend of a friend, and Audrey had found him out. She'd threatened to divorce him and take Louisa to North Yorkshire, where Audrey's grandparents lived. It would've forced Sherlock to make the four hour trip to Scarborough by train and then another thirty minutes by car to the small village in which her grandparents lived. That was when they'd agreed to a trial separation. Sherlock had moved to a tiny flat on the corner of Montague Place and Russell Square, and spent hours in the British Museum, hoping for a juicy murder in between visits home—when this house _was_ home.

The flat on Baker Street that he'd shared with John for a bare four and a half weeks was now home, and it was a home in the way that this house never had been. Yes, this had been home because it was the place where he, his wife and their daughter lived. Yet he'd had no hand in choosing it or paying for it or even decorating it other than the basement where he'd set up his lab. This house had fit him like a cheap suit; too snug in some places and too loose in others, only a few places worn comfortably.

The pain of John's abandonment still ran ragged through his veins, but the only thing he could do about John— _for_ John, at this point, was to heed his request. _Don't contact me_. So, Sherlock would not. At least, not yet.

He let himself in through the front door and almost dropped his keys on the table in the foyer, but stopped himself, slipping them into his pocket instead. The house was quiet and even though Audrey had said Louisa would be staying with his mother-in-law, he'd still expected the shriek of _Daddy!_ and a bundle of knobby limbs with a long, black braid flying out behind as Louisa came crashing down the stairs and into his arms. She was the only thing he missed about this house.

"Hello?" Sherlock called out. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it in the closet of the narrow hallway in which he stood, then started up the stairs. Audrey met him on the first floor, coming out of her office. She was barefoot, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, her hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. She wore no makeup, and her eyes were red and swollen. In the mirror that morning, Sherlock's had looked much the same.

"Hey," she said quietly and gave him a tight smile—a _resigned_ smile, he thought. "Can we sit down in my office or—we can go downstairs?"

"Your office is fine," he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He felt ridiculously nervous, as though this was a first date, rather than the end of their marriage.

Sherlock followed her into the office. It was reminiscent of a gentleman's club, with dark leather chairs, worn carpets, a solid oak desk, and a small gas fireplace. She'd decorated it like that when they moved in eight years ago. The house was a gift from her parents when Audrey told them she was pregnant with Louisa. Sherlock had found it endearing, the idea of Audrey sitting behind a huge oak desk, her open face and easy smile so at odds with the kind of whiskery old codger one expected to find in this kind of room.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked, gesturing to the Keurig discreetly tucked on a shelf to the left of her desk. She was nervous, too, Sherlock realized. It made him feel oddly tender towards her.

"No, thank you," he said, and sat in one of the two dark leather chairs that framed the heavily draped windows looking out onto the back garden.

"I'm just going to get a coffee, then," she said, stepping up to the machine. She fitted the pod in, and they stayed silent as the machine made its usual whirring sound before filling her mug. The smell of coffee curled up through the room and Sherlock took a deep breath. He liked coffee, but John liked tea and Sherlock had never seen a reason to drink anything else.

Finally, she sat down in the chair facing Sherlock, tucking her feet up under her. It took her a minute to look at him, but then she smiled sadly and he returned it. She seemed inclined to speak first, and so he waited, one foot balanced on the opposite knee.

"I talked to Jeremy yesterday," Audrey said. Jeremy was their solicitor. She took a sip of her coffee. The steam curled up over her lip before dissipating into the air. "He said if we're serious about getting a divorce, he can recommend someone for each of us, but that he's too close to both of us to feel he'd fairly represent us, no matter how amicable the divorce may be. He already gave me a few names, and said he would call you later, as well."

Sherlock nodded and said, "Thank you for that." He took a deep breath. "And Louisa? Have you said anything to her?"

Audrey shook her head. "I thought we should tell her together."

"Today?" he asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"If you wish," she said and shrugged. "I have one question, though," Audrey continued, and she frowned. She took another sip from her mug. "Why did you have sex with me yesterday? For that matter, why two weeks ago? We hadn't had sex in _months_ before then. It seemed—well, it confused me. I mean, we'd agreed we wouldn't sleep together while we were separated."

Sherlock sucked a breath in through his nose. "Two weeks ago, I think I needed to know if—I needed to know what I was feeling. For him, that is. It was a crude experiment to measure my feelings for him versus my feelings for you. I know it was grossly unfair to the both of you."

Where someone else would've been deeply offended at Sherlock's brutally clinical admission, Audrey only raised her eyebrows ruefully. "Let me guess—you discovered you were in love with him?"

He was surprised at the lack of recrimination in her voice, so it took him a moment to answer. "I am, yes—very much so."

"Does he know that you and I were separated for the last six months? That, you know—we were already pretty much—" she waved her hand in the air in a wordless gesture of grim humor.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Divorced?"

"Something like that," she answered, doing a complicated shrug with her shoulders, one hand and her eyebrows that made him bite back a laugh.

"No, he doesn't—I didn't really get a chance to talk to him about any of the— _particulars_ of the separation."

"What about yesterday, then?" asked Audrey, her eyes serious and hurt.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, brows furrowed.

"Why did you have sex with me yesterday?"

"Why did you _initiate_ sex yesterday?"

Audrey groaned, letting her head drop forward. When she looked up, her eyes shimmered with moisture. "A last hurrah? I only meant to talk to you. You've been avoiding me for two weeks. Ever since—"

"I was, yes," Sherlock admitted, lowering his eyes to his lap.

"Your turn," she said.

"My turn?"

"Why did you have sex with me yesterday?"

Sherlock dropped both feet to the floor, balanced his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands over his face and into his hair. "I cannot really—I don't know myself why I did it. I was—you were comfortable. A known variable. I—he was mad at me already. I'd run off and left him at the Yard without letting him know where I was going. He couldn't get ahold of me. I frightened him. You know, he—he didn't know if I was okay. So he wasn't really speaking to me. I'd planned to tell him that I was married, that you and I had separated, and were likely to divorce. Then you showed up, and then he came home early, and then—" he threw his hands out "—it all went to shit."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock snapped, then stood up, anxiety a weight in his stomach and a lump in his throat.

"He left?"

Sherlock lifted his face to the ceiling and mumbled, "Yes."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said quietly. "What will you do?"

"I don't fucking know," Sherlock said, and shook his head. "I would ask for your advice, but you're not the person I should be asking." Audrey tilted her head in acknowledgement of the wisdom of that statement. Sherlock leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. "I didn't want to hurt anyone, honestly. I was—stupidly selfish, but I thought I could—"

"Control all variables?"

Sherlock snorted. "Something like that."

"Sherlock, you can't _experiment_ with people."

"So I've been told."

She sighed and set her cup on the side table next to her chair, then got up and walked to him. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around him, and he clung to her. It wasn't long before he felt the dampness of Audrey's tears against his neck and he squeezed her against him in the shared sorrow of the loss of a marriage that had died without taking their affection for each other with it. It confused things, still loving someone you once thought yourself _in_ love with.

"My affection for you still runs very deep," Sherlock said in a solemn voice. Audrey laughed and stood back, reaching around him for a box of tissues. She blew her nose and said, "You've been a good husband, Sherlock, and I suppose after Victor, well—it's not like I don't know what it's like to fall in love with someone when you're still married. I admit that yesterday when I saw the way you looked at him, so desperate to keep him from finding out—I was jealous. Horribly jealous that you were selfish enough to keep John when I'd given Victor up for you."

Sherlock nodded, eyes on the floor. "I don't want to lob blame, Audrey, but I told you then that if you wanted a—"

"Yes, yes, I know," she said, waving her hand impatiently. She tossed the used tissue in the small metal bin underneath the shelf where the Keurig machine sat. "I know it was my decision, I know you would have let me leave you for him, but Louisa was only four and I couldn't imagine uprooting her like that."

"Is he still in Scarborough?"

"Yes," Audrey said.

"And have you—"

"Only once or twice."

"Will you—"

"Sherlock, I don't want to talk about Victor _or_ John, all right? Can you and I just sit here for a moment, together, like we did when we were younger, and you were the only boy who didn't bore the shit out of me—"

"And you were the only girl who was intelligent enough to have a conversation with?"

"Yes!" Audrey said, turning to him with a smile. "I don't want to lose that, that—I mean we were best friends once, and I know that having spent nearly a third of our lives married to each other makes it a little more difficult to go back to being _besties_ , but we are lucky not to have the animosity and bitterness of other couples we know who've ended up divorced."

"Oh, God, I never want to see any of those people again! I should've divorced you ages ago for dragging me to all those goddamn parties and get-togethers."

Audrey snorted in laughter. "They were my _friends_! I couldn't let you hide away in the basement. Your mother made me promise to force you to be sociable every so often." She turned to face him, growing serious. "This life never suited you. I admit, I was surprised to find that it suited me, eventually. I felt like I grew up and you never did."

"Oh, God, don't start—"

"Let me finish! I tried to force you to fit into this life. You were always very honest with me about not wanting the same life our parents had, that our marriage was going to maintain that bohemian air we'd entered into it with. I thought I agreed with you. But it has suited me, being married, especially to such a brilliant, gorgeous, albeit eccentric man. Being a mother has greatly suited me, too, more than I thought possible. In that way, I think we are alike."

"Yes, I am rather fond of the fruit of my loins."

"Oh, shut it," she said, bumping her shoulder against his.

They smiled at each other. It felt good—relaxing, uplifting in a way.

"Even though marriage suits you, as you said, are you at all relieved?" he asked. "You know, that we've—finally, _finally_ decided to go forward with the divorce."

"Yes, actually. Mostly because I'm still young enough to find love again, but I'm not getting any younger, and clinging to you is just a waste of time, to be honest."

"Honesty is good."

"Yes, Sherlock, honesty _is_ good. You should try it sometime."

Sherlock blew a raspberry at her and she laughed.

"Lunch?" she asked. "We can map out what to tell Louisa. She's been asking if she can stay with you. At least I know now why you haven't let her. I'm guessing you didn't want her bringing home tales of John."

Sherlock stared at the floor, wringing his hands. "I've been an absolute shit father the last month."

"Yes, you have," Audrey said lightly, but Sherlock didn't doubt for a minute that she was serious. "She doesn't doubt your love, Sherlock, but she's terribly curious about the new flat. She'd find all that mess delightful. Chemicals and a microscope on the kitchen table—and body parts in the fridge!"

Sherlock grinned proudly. Louisa took after him in looks and interests, though her personality was all Audrey—friendly, good-natured, and, thankfully, not prone to the black moods Sherlock suffered.

"Wait," he said frowning. "How did you know about the body parts?"

"Mrs. Hudson told me! Do you think she knows about you and John? She's never let on to me."

"Probably. There's very little that gets past her."

"Indeed," Audrey said.

They stood in silence for a while, enjoying the calm before what was sure to be a nightmare of solicitors and meetings, audits of their mutual estate and possessions, arrangements and agreements. No matter how amicable, the road ahead of them was fraught with opportunities for bitterness and regret. Maintaining their affection for each other wouldn't be guaranteed, although they had a pre-existing friendship in their favor. In fact, Sherlock thought it likely he and Audrey had only _ever_ been best friends who just happened to have a relationship more complicated than friends with benefits.

Sherlock spoke then, his voice quiet and earnest. "Promise me that you'll remember today. This—acknowledgement of what we have meant to each other. I don't want—even if only for Louisa, I would rather not fight over anything. I don't want her to feel like her life is falling apart while we're arguing about who gets to keep the Persian carpets or what we consider a just division of our financial investments."

Audrey smiled, one side of her mouth tilting up in understanding. She held out her hand. "I promise." They shook hands, and, after a moment, let go and moved on.

~*~

"Daddy!" Louisa cried joyfully when she saw Sherlock.

"There's my gorgeous girl," he said, and scooped her up into his arms. He almost couldn't lift her anymore. He gave her a good squeeze, and she buried her cold nose into his neck making him cry out.

Louisa laughed and, when he put her down, asked, "What are you doing here?" Her hazel eyes—Audrey's color but the same shape as his—sparkled with excitement.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said and grimaced, looking over Louisa's shoulders to Audrey.

"Let's get our coats off and then I'll make us some chocolate so we can sit down and talk."

"Not a _talk_ ," Louisa groaned, tilting her head back.

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, and Audrey gave him a warning look. He shrugged his shoulders, and got his smile under control.

"Go on then, you two. I'll be there in a moment."

Louisa led Sherlock into the front sitting room and pushed him down in the chair that used to be his. "What are we going to talk about?" she whispered conspiratorially.

"Wait until your Mum gets here with the chocolate."

"C'mon, Dad, _please_?" she wheedled.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head.

"Ugh," she replied, waving her hand in disgust. "I'm not stupid, you know. It's about you and Mum. She told me you were here, but then acted all quiet and serious like."

Audrey walked in, handing out mugs of hot chocolate. "Here we go, then."

"Is this about your divorce?" Louisa asked before Audrey had even sat down.

Sherlock choked on the sip of chocolate he'd just taken, unsure whether to laugh or frown. "Yes," he said instead. "Your mother and I are going to have a divorce."

"I thought you were already divorced," Louisa said with a frown. "Dad moved out _ages_ ago."

"That was what they call a _trial separation_ ," Audrey began. "We—"

"Who calls it that?" Louisa asked, then took a sip of her chocolate.

"Solicitors," Sherlock said and wrinkled his nose. "A trial separation is when two people who are married decide to live apart for a while because they think they might want a divorce, but they're not quite ready to take the step to start divorce proceedings."

"And how long do these proceedings take?" Louisa asked, her brow furrowed in serious curiosity.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I've never been divorced before."

Louisa rolled her eyes. "So basically this means you're never moving back in with us," she said to Sherlock.

"Basically," Sherlock said.

"How do you feel about that, Louisa?" Audrey asked.

Both Sherlock and Louisa looked at her like they didn't understand the question. Sherlock finally clarified, saying, "I think your mother's trying to ask if you're upset."

"No, not really," Louisa stated.

Sherlock snorted and Audrey glared at him again. "I told you she wouldn't be upset," Sherlock said with a pointed look. "And she's hardly one to mince words if she were."

"I wonder where she got that from," Audrey muttered.

"Exactly," Sherlock said and bowed his head once towards Louisa. He clapped his hands together. "So—I thought I might go stay with Nana and Grandad for a week or so. Would you like to come with me next weekend?"

"Brilliant!" Louisa shouted.

"Louisa, lower your voice," Audrey scolded.

"Brilliant!" Louisa whispered.

Sherlock and Audrey looked over Louisa's head and shared a smile.

~*~

That evening, Sherlock after he left the Powis Square house, he dragged his feet on the way to Baker Street. Sherlock was loathe to walk into the flat knowing John's absence would be felt too keenly, so he had the taxi driver drop him off at Regent's Park. He bought a pack of cigarettes from the newsagent's and smoked while he walked home. It was almost eight, and Sherlock had checked his mobile far too many times already. There were no messages from John, and Sherlock considered it unlikely there would be. For the time being, he would give both John _and_ himself the space they needed to come to terms with what had happened in the past thirty-two hours. (The urge to ring John was almost unbearable, but he would bear it. For John, he would do anything. _Except be honest_ , a voice said, sounding very much like John's. Honesty from here on out, then, because he had no way to change the past, only his behavior going forward.)

The minute he walked in the flat, Sherlock knew John—or someone in John's stead—had already been and gone, and that if Sherlock were to search the flat, he'd find nothing of John’s left behind. Sherlock didn't need to bother checking. There was an absence in the flat, a fading echo of John. Sherlock stopped himself from running to the bedroom and pressing his face into the pillow where John had slept last night.

Instead, he used his mobile to ring his mother. She could tell right away something was wrong.

"Darling, what is it?" his mother asked.

"Can I come stay with you and Dad for a while?"

"Well, yes, of course, but what's going on?"

"Oh, and I told Louisa she could come next weekend to stay as well."

"That's wonderful. Now, stop evading my question."

Sherlock sighed. "Audrey and I are getting a divorce."

"That's hardly a surprise, dear, and I seriously doubt it's why you want to come for a visit. So spill. And remember, I know when you're lying."

"Can we talk about it when I get there?"

"Oh, _fine_ , leave me hanging," she said sharply. "When will you be here?"

"Tomorrow morning?"

"I look forward to it, darling. I'll expect a fully detailed account of why my baby boy sounds so sad as soon as you arrive," she said, the words _baby boy_ spoken in baby talk.

Sherlock groaned in much the same way Louisa had earlier when faced with the horror of having a _talk_ with he and Audrey. "I'll tell you. You just have to promise not to be mad at me."

"I make no promises."

" _Mother_ ," he ground out.

"I can promise you that I'll still love you, and that I won't stay angry for long," she said. It was the same thing she'd said his whole life, to him and Mycroft whenever they'd found themselves in the position of having to disclose something to her they really didn't want to.

"Okay," Sherlock said, and let out a jaw-cracking yawn, realizing how exhausted he was.

"See you tomorrow, my dear," she said and hung up.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock found himself slunk down in his chair, a glass of scotch in his hand, staring moodily at the fire in the hearth. He felt like he was on the edge of a roof, looking down at John's sad and angry face. Sherlock was certain he could spend the rest of his life atoning for his sins, but it would never be enough.

His eyes welled with tears, and Sherlock wiped them away with the heels of his hands. If anyone could help, it would be his mother. He finished his drink and went to pack for the trip south.


	6. "Run From Each Other" (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for the lateness of this Thursday's chapter. I've got the LAZIEST betas known to man.
> 
> No, no, don't listen to anything I say about Katie, Jenn, or Tia. They are absolute saints and I'm a demanding, possessive, and bossy writer. Jenn said she was sick and I said I DON'T CARE, BETA THE DAMN THING AND STOP YOUR WHINGING. 
> 
> This chapter got too long, so I split it into two. I'm not finished writing the 2nd part and now that it has become chapter 7, it will be posted on August 16th. The number of chapters has gone from 8 to 9 accordingly.

* * *

John's phone rang, startling him out of sleep. He fumbled it off the nightstand, saw that it was an unknown number and declined the call. After he'd moved out of 221 Baker Street two and a half weeks ago, he had changed his phone number and email address, as well as deleted his blog. He'd always known in the back of his head that if Sherlock did something to make John leave, John would do it properly. Sherlock was too good at offering temptation, and he tempted John more than most.

John's phone rang again with the same unknown number. Again, he declined it, but his eye caught the time as he did. It was after noon. He'd gone to bed at half eleven. He knew he was depressed, but he hadn't realized exactly _how_ depressed. Sleeping for more than 12 hours counted as _properly_ fucking depressed.

The unknown number called twice more before John finally answered the phone. "What the fuck do you want?" he yelled.

"John, it's Mycroft," the familiar voice said.

John sat as stunned as if a hand had materialized out of thin air and slapped him in the face before disappearing again. "What?" he croaked.

The man on the other end of the phone sighed, but John was not so stunned that he didn't notice this sigh was different from all the other sighs John had heard Mycroft make. It wasn't cynical or condescending. No, this was the sigh of a weary man. Had he heard a hitch in that sigh?

"Whatever you want, the answer is no," John said, and hung up before he could ask something stupid. Like, _Does Sherlock miss me? Has he asked about me? Are you calling because he needs me back, but is too proud to admit it?_

The phone rang a final time with Mycroft's number, and this time John turned his phone off. He might have gone back to sleep, or maybe just slipped into a fugue because almost immediately there was a banging on his door. John sat up in bed, and rubbed his hands roughly over his face. He had four days' worth of facial hair. It itched and he spent a few seconds scratching at it, trying to remember why he'd woken up, when the knocking came again.

Grunting with the effort, he hauled himself out of bed and limped towards the door. When he opened it, the man standing there, dressed in a jumper and corduroy trousers, looked so unlike the man John remembered, that he almost invited him in. Then he realized. It was _Mycroft_. John tried to slam the door, but Mycroft bullied his way in.

John found himself so furious that his fingers and face went numb as adrenaline rushed in. "I told you already—whatever you want, the answer is _no_ ," John said with cold detachment. Under his anger was a burning relief at having something—someone—who connected him to Sherlock. He almost expected the deep voice and swinging dark coat of Sherlock's to come barreling in the door behind Mycroft.

"John, please, listen to me," Mycroft said, putting up his hands as though he was trying to keep John in the room.

"You have one minute," John growled, and ignored the look of dismay on Mycroft's face. But then, details he would normally not have seen before meeting Sherlock became startlingly clear. He noticed Mycroft's red and puffy eyes. His disheveled appearance, his casual clothes. He'd _never_ seen either Holmes brother in a _jumper_ for God's sake. John rubbed his eyes and sighed, then said, "You have ten minutes." He limped into the kitchenette to do what he always did in these situations. He flipped on the kettle to make tea.

"Thank you, John, thank you," Mycroft said, sounding so heartfelt and desperate, that John frowned and spared him another look. "My mother— _our_ mother—mine and Sherlock's—she, uh. She passed away this Friday past. The funeral is this Saturday, and I'm here because I want you to come."

"I'm sorry to hear it," John said, voice low and sincere, but hard enough to make sure Mycroft knew that his sympathy only extended so far, "but I'm not sure why you're asking me to go."

"I know that what happened between you and Sherlock—"

"Is none of your business," John snapped. Without realizing it, he filled two mugs with water from the kettle and dropped a tea bag in each.

"I think," Mycroft said slowly, carefully, "It would mean a lot to Sherlock _and_ myself, if you were there on Saturday."

"Did he send you?" John asked, hope blooming like mold in his chest.

"No, but. John, before he met you, our mother was his only confidante. They were very close. In the space of a month, he's lost two of the three people he loves most in the world."

"Are you here to hand out some emotional blackmail, Mycroft? Because that's what it sounds like to me."

"No, that was—" Mycroft began.

"You want me to just forget that Sherlock did what he did to me because his mother died? People die all the time, Mycroft, that doesn't give their family members a clean slate." John's voice lowered and softened. "I'm truly sorry your mother died, but I cut Sherlock out of my life for a reason. I don't want to see him, even to pay my respects."

With that, John began to usher Mycroft out of his flat, but Mycroft put his hand against John's chest to stop his forward momentum towards the door, and said, "John, please, will you just consider it? I know what an absolutely selfish arsehole he is, but I know the two of you love each other and—"

John tilted his head and gave Mycroft a murderous smile, a smile that Mycroft knew instinctively meant _by all means, keep talking because I'll enjoy putting a bullet in your head_ and snapped his mouth shut. He found his eyes sliding away from John's while he waited for John to speak. Finally, in a menacing voice so far removed from his everyday affableness that he seemed a different person right then, John said, "If you think for one moment that loving someone means giving them blanket forgiveness, then you don't know the first thing about love."

Mycroft sighed, his shoulders slumped, and he turned towards the door. "I understand," he said. Right as Mycroft was walking through the door, he turned and asked John, "Will you at least consider coming?"

John closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I will consider it if you promise not to contact me after this. And don't tell Sherlock we spoke."

"Thank you, John," Mycroft said, almost smiling. "Can I text you the details?"

"Fine. But no contact after that, no matter what I decide."

"Of course," Mycroft said softly, almost sadly, and then he was through the door, and John was shutting it and locking it, and sliding down into a crouch where he put his head in his hands and cried.

~*~

John took an Uber from his rented room on Chiswick High Street to Our Lady Queen of Peace Catholic Church in Richmond. When Mycroft sent him a text with the details for the funeral, John had been gleefully surprised to discover the Holmes family were Catholic. Mycroft and Sherlock were both so strident about logic and evidence they could gather with their senses, that the idea that they might have grown up going to Sunday Mass every week was a glimpse into Sherlock's life that was more intimate than lying in bed while they were both naked.

The path from the Uber into the church was windy and cold, and he felt it through his jacket and cardigan, straight into his heart. He was nervous, and kept glancing surreptitiously around, trying not to look overly suspicious as he scanned for Sherlock. The last thing he wanted was to speak with him, to even allow him to know John was there. Although, thinking about it, he supposed that negated his whole reason for coming. After all, he was supposed to be offering support, not hiding.

Nonetheless, he caught up to three older women wearing oddly cheerful colors, and he could automatically tell they were wealthy. They greeted and began merging with a group of nervous and more soberly dressed women, some of them teenagers, and all of them with the twitchy and vigilant eyes of someone suffering PTSD. Just like with the older women, John could tell that _these_ women were poor.

John hid behind that group of women and followed them as they made their way into the church. Before he could slip unobtrusively into a back pew, he was handed a leaflet by a teenage girl who was obviously related to Sherlock and Mycroft. John did a double take. This was obviously not Louisa, but it was as though someone had merged Sherlock and Mycroft into one person, then added a softer, rounder body, and brown eyes. A cousin, perhaps. Jesus, how many Holmeses _were_ there? And did they know anything about he and Sherlock? No, certainly not. So long as Sherlock didn't spot him, John was safe. _Safe? From what? From Sherlock? From throwing_ yourself _at Sherlock?_

By the time John had taken the leaflet, the pew he'd planned to sit in—the one furthest in the back—had filled up enough that he would have to step over people and sit in the middle. Not a good place to sit if one wanted to make a quick getaway. Nothing like tripping over people to draw attention to oneself. John's eyes scanned the church ( _sacristy? nave?_ ). There were three sections of pews, all shaped in a wedge. Most of the middle section had _reserved_ signs, which explained why John's preferred back pew had been taken. There were two aisles on each side of the middle, both of which led to a foyer of sorts, and then out the front doors. John huddled in one of the doorways before darting into a back pew in the left wedge. He'd no sooner sat down, then two old women, probably Mrs. Hudson's age, asked him to scoot over. And _then_ , to his horror, he realized that it _was_ Mrs. Hudson and a woman who could only be her sister, as they looked almost like twins (although John knew Mrs. Hudson was the younger sister by four years).

"John, I'm so glad you came," Mrs. Hudson said, pushing him relentlessly to the middle of the pew, while managing to look both tearful and weak. Reluctantly, John scooted to the middle to allow Mrs. Hudson to sit next to him and Mrs. Hudson's sister to sit on the aisle side. John couldn't help but glower. Mrs. Hudson patted his knee. "Agnes, this is Dr. John Watson. I told you about him." The sisters exchanged a look that made John turn a furious shade of red.

"Good to meet you, Dr. Watson," Agnes said, holding out her liver spotted hand. She had an actual lace trimmed handkerchief tucked into her sleeve.

"Call me John, please," he said, shaking her hand. "It's good to meet you."

"Yes, just terrible to meet under these circumstances, don't you think?" Agnes remarked, sharing another look with her sister, this one unreadable.

Before John could respond, Mrs. Hudson began to cry. "Oh, those poor boys! And Louisa was so close to her grandmother, you know?" This seemed to be directed at John, who opened his mouth and then closed it, realizing he had no idea what to say because, no, he _didn't_ know Louisa was close to her grandmother. Mrs. Hudson leaned close to him, close enough for him to hear her without everyone else doing so. "What Sherlock did was awful, John, and I told him so every chance I got. Poor Sherlock—he was just trying so hard not to hurt anyone."

John snorted in disbelief so loudly that several people around him turned to look at him, their faces portraying a range of emotions from curious to indignant. John shrugged at all of them, and wished he had not come. He didn't want to have a conversation with Mrs. Hudson about his relationship with Sherlock while at Sherlock's mother's funeral. _Violet_ , he thought to himself, having gleaned that much from the leaflet before being accosted by Mrs. Hudson. _Violet Holmes, not_ Sherlock's mother. Truthfully, he didn't want to have a conversation with _anyone_ about he and Sherlock at any point in time, _ever_ , because it was over and it was staying over. He wanted to ask Mrs. Hudson if she'd been waiting for him to show up, hiding in the foyer until she saw him, and then chivvied him to the middle of the pew so he couldn't get away without causing a disturbance.

_Fuck it_ , he thought. There was no reason for him to be here, and he regretted coming. He should've listened to the sensible part of his brain that had told him, _if you feel sorry for him, you'll be a sitting duck—he'll pluck you right up and you won't get away a second time_. He stood abruptly, and said, "Excuse me," to Mrs. Hudson, but didn't wait for her to move before stepping as gingerly as he could _but quickly now_ past her and Agnes, and didn't stop even when Mrs. Hudson squawked at his rough retreat, and called after him, missing his arm by inches. He hurried as fast as he could down the aisle towards the back of the church, and the front doors, and freedom.

Right as he made it into the foyer, the Holmes' family filed into the back of the church from some hidden area off a hallway to the side that he hadn't noticed walking in because of course he hadn't. He'd been too preoccupied with trying to locate Sherlock so that he could stay as far away from him as possible, and now, with his desperate flight towards the outside, he'd walked right into him.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hoarser than normal. It cracked at the end. John froze, looking up and around himself as every eye within hearing range swiveled to stare at him. He directed his gaze down, his nostrils flaring with outrage. He'd been manipulated by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, but if what he heard in Sherlock's voice was genuine, Sherlock hadn't been in on it.

John's face burned, and he knew he was red. He couldn't bear to look at anyone, especially not Sherlock, and he had never in his entire life felt so humiliated and ridiculous. He said nothing, and forced his body to unfreeze, skated around the edge of the knot of Holmeses, and made for the front door, his eyes lifted only enough so that he wouldn't trip over something, because that was a mortification he didn't think he could live through.

"John, wait!" Sherlock called after him, his hand grabbing for John's arm, but John managed to outpace him for once in their acquaintance, and Sherlock's fingers grasped at John's shirt before John tore himself away.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said warningly, and John heard everything in that one word _now's not the time—you have a mother to bury_.

"I know, but—" Sherlock said, sounding even more dejected than before.

"Who's that man, Daddy? Why's he leaving?" John heard Louisa say in a child's whisper, the type that carried.

"It's a friend of Daddy's, darling. He had somewhere to be," Audrey said

And then John was out the door, into the churchyard, where he broke into a full out run, _no idea where to go forgot I had to call a Uber pretty sure I won't find a taxi here just get away from him, away away away._


	7. "Hold Each Other's Hand" (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry." (The best laid plans of Teddy's stories always go awry, usually around the two thirds mark.) 
> 
> I changed the title of chapter 6 to "Run From Each Other" because it didn't make sense to call it "Forgive Each Other" anymore. I didn't call this chapter "Forgive Each Other" either because I did a major rewrite of this chapter and the theme of forgiveness is more subtly threaded through the remaining chapters.
> 
> There's a change in the posting schedule for this and the last two chapters. Instead of posting on Thursdays, I'll be posting on **Mondays**. That means chapter 8 will be posted on August 20th and Chapter 9 will be posted on August 27th (which is also the first day of school for my kiddos!)

* * *

The church was in a residential neighborhood. John couldn't remember which direction he'd come on his way to the church, though he knew he could probably remember if he wasn't panicking. Up ahead he saw a bus stop and sagged in relief, slowing to a walk. He didn't care where the bus took him, so long as it was _away_.

Then he heard Sherlock behind him, calling his name, begging him to stop. John's first instinct was to run, but he checked himself. He was a grown man and running away like a coward wasn't going to subdue his sadness at what had happened between him and Sherlock. So, John turned and faced the man who had stolen his heart and then thrown it away.

John wasn't expecting the Sherlock who stopped in front of him. This Sherlock was dressed just as sharply as John's Sherlock, but there were wrinkles in his shirt and trousers. The thin skin under his eyes were as purple as bruises, and there were shadows under his cheekbones. He'd lost weight—too much weight.

"John, please come back," Sherlock said, taking a step closer. Was there a double meaning to the words _come back? Come back to the church. Come back home._

"Sherlock, I'm sorry your mother died, but I don't think—"

"I need you, John, please. When I saw you, I thought, _I can get through this with John at my side_."

Before John could reply, Sherlock was clutching his arms in a punishing grip, his face buried in John's neck and he was _sobbing_. John stood slack for a moment, telling his arms _don't you dare hold him, or you will fall under his spell and be forever lost_ , but his arms didn't listen.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him close. He heard Sherlock muttering into his neck, and tried to make it out. Eventually he picked out something like _please, please I miss you so much, God, I'm lost without you, I'm lost without her, I don't know where I am anymore, I need you, God I need you, please, please come back, please come back and hold my hand, I can't get through this without you, I need you_.

All the cacophony that had been filling John's head since that awful day suddenly quieted. Since he'd discovered Sherlock's betrayal, there had been a nasty, hateful voice that had spoken up whenever he thought about Sherlock. He hadn't challenged it, had felt it was righteous and would protect him from Sherlock.

Now that voice was silent, and in the silence, a new voice spoke.

 _You trust Sherlock's method of deduction, right? Look at him, then, and tell me what you observe_.

First, John could see that Sherlock had lost at least a stone. As a doctor, John knew that if Sherlock's weight loss had only been a result of his mother's death he wouldn't have lost _that_ much weight. That meant that Sherlock had already been losing weight _before_ his mother died.

 _Maybe he started losing weight after you left_.

No. _No._ He wasn't going to start making excuses for Sherlock so that he could run back into Sherlock's arms and still retain his pride.

 _From where I'm standing, it looks like Sherlock ran back into_ your _arms_.

That didn't change the fact that Sherlock had committed infidelity. He'd lied. He'd destroyed John's life, not to mention the lives of his wife and daughter!

_What about his own life? Look at him!_

Sherlock was too thin and utterly wrecked. He was sobbing in John's arms, begging for John to hold his hand. But his mother had just died! That had nothing to do with what had happened between the two of them.

 _Is he asking you to forgive what he did to you?_ Well. No. _Is he asking you to move back in with him?_ Of course not. _So, what_ is _he asking you for? What were his exact words?_

"Hold my hand."

"I need you."

"I can get through this if you're with me."

Suddenly John's clarity allowed him to recognize three inviolable truths: that he loved Sherlock; Sherlock loved him; and today Sherlock _needed_ him.

He didn't have to forgive Sherlock _right now_ in order to be there for him. He didn't have to be Sherlock's lover to offer him solace today. Today, Sherlock needed John to be his _friend_.

John took Sherlock's face in his hands and held his eyes. "Let's go back before we start worrying everyone, yeah?"

Sherlock looked surprised, which made John wonder just how unfair he'd been when he left that day for Sherlock to be _surprised_ John would comfort him when he was obviously drowning in anguish.

"Will you sit next to me in the front pew?" Sherlock asked, his beautiful, deep voice hoarse from crying.

"What about Audrey and Louisa?"

"Audrey knows how I feel about you—what you mean to me. Louisa won't ask questions if I tell her you're my friend."

"And that's what I am, Sherlock," John said somberly, making sure Sherlock was looking him in the eyes. "I don't want there to be any misunderstanding between us. Starting today, I would like us to be _friends_. Are you okay with that?"

Sherlock's eyes dropped to the ground, and then, after a moment, he gave a small nod. Then he looked at John again, held his hand out between them, and softly asked, "Will you—I know this may sound silly, but would you be okay with maybe holding my hand? I just need—I know that when it's too much, if I could have your hand to squeeze—have solid proof that you're actually _there_ , sitting beside me, it might be more bearable, I think, when it's really bad, to know—to be holding your hand."

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, trying not to succumb to tears of his own, knowing it would only damage the fragile control Sherlock had on his emotions right now. "Of course I'll hold your hand."

John reached out with his left, and Sherlock clasped it gratefully, and said in a small voice, "Thank you, John."

They walked in silence, holding hands. At the church doors Mycroft, Audrey, and a small assortment of Holmeses were looking worriedly around. Sherlock looked at John with a question in his eyes, and John squeezed his hand, and didn't let it go.

"There you are," Mycroft said. "For God's sake everyone's—" His words dried up, but his mouth stayed open. He stared at Sherlock and John's clasped hands with a combination of pleasant surprise and irritation.

"John is sitting in the front next to me," Sherlock said without further explanation.

"Who's John?" Louisa asked, pushing her way through the group so she could see. "Oh, you're Dad's friend. Mum said you had to go somewhere else. Why are you holding Dad's hand?"

John was beginning to worry his skin would stay permanently red and hot if he continued to blush at his current rate. "Um—"

"Because John is my friend," Sherlock supplied, "and it helps to hold a friend's hand when you're sad."

"Oh," said Louisa, looking thoughtful. "I'm glad you came back from wherever you had to be, then. Dad needs a friend. It's a pleasure to meet you, John," she said and held out her hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," John said with sincerity. He shook her small hand, marveling at seeing Sherlock's long, awkward yet elegant fingers on such a small scale.

"Have you found Sherlock?" asked a new, wavering voice. A tall man with grey hair pushed through the crowd of Holmeses much like Louisa had.

 _(A flock of Holmeses? No, a_ murder _of Holmeses!_ John thought to himself and had to stifle a grin.)

Looking at John, the man said, "Oh, forgive us for blocking the doorway. Let him by, everyone. Thank you for coming, by the way," he said, looking back at John.

"Grandad, this is _John_ ," Louisa said, the emphasis on John's name suggesting she was imparting a great secret to her grandfather. John looked at Sherlock and then back at his father, and honestly couldn't see the resemblance.

_(The first Holmes that doesn't look like a Holmes!)_

"Oh, yes, you're Sherlock's John," Mr. Holmes said with an air of sincere, if muted, delight. "It's so lovely to finally meet you. I'm Will."

John shook Will's hand, red with embarrassment, and after being greeted so respectfully by both Sherlock's daughter and father, he wondered if Sherlock and Mycroft had had their manners surgically removed at some point.

"Now that everything is sorted, let's all come back inside so we can get started," Mycroft said, a pale version of his usual officious self.

Filing down the aisle with the Holmes family while holding Sherlock's hands was earning John a plethora of confused and intrigued looks. There was a bit of gossiping going on, which was to be expected. There were also some outraged looks, mostly from older people, obviously very devout and indignant that homosexuality should be paraded before them so brazenly.

It took some time for all the Holmeses to file into their pews. There were a substantial number of them, but Sherlock had explained to him in a whisper that his mother had three younger brothers who had seven children, and six grandchildren among them. That explained the large number of dark-haired, long-limbed, well-bred and gorgeous people surrounding one short, weathered army doctor. It didn't worry him in the slightest to be a bit of coal surrounded by diamonds, though, because whenever Sherlock squeezed John's hand, or whenever they caught each other's eyes, he knew—that to Sherlock—John _was_ a diamond.

~*~


	8. "Support Each Other" (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for Chapter 8:
> 
> * I'm posting this chapter a day early because I can. My betas don't know, though, so shhh. They try to teach me patience, but alas...
> 
> * The chapter count has gone up _again_ from 9 to 10. Whenever I outline a new work, I organize the chapters according to natural breaks in the narration. When it's time to sit down and actually write, however, some chapters end up being too long, and then we have to do some fiddling around. Even after cutting this chapter in half, it's still the longest I've posted to date. (Tia said she didn't think my readers would object to an extra chapter or two.)
> 
> * We are now officially out of the Heavy Angst tag! YAY! Despite my aversion to tagging, there have been some changes and additions if you care to check them.
> 
> #### Important:
> 
> ###### Thank you for all your comments! I haven't responded to them in a few weeks because I've made the decision not to answer comments within the comment threads. _However,_ I encourage you to either email me or come ask me on Tumblr if you want to know why I've made this choice, if you'd like to discuss any comment you make further, to ask questions about the stories you're not comfortable asking in a public context, or just because you'd like to chat! I don't know how many times I can say that anyone at all is welcome to email me or ask me on Tumblr! My email address is in my profile, and it's posted in the end notes of every work I've written for the last year.
> 
> ### I honestly treasure all of my readers, old and new, the ones who comment regularly and the ones who never do. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

* * *

After the funeral and the interment, but before all the funeral-goers had gone back to Sherlock's parents' house, John gave Sherlock his new number and email address. _If you need—someone,_ John had said, awkwardly walking the fine line between encouraging friendship and discouraging hope for rekindling their romance. Sherlock had nodded, looking down at the piece of paper John had scratched out the information on. John's eyes tracked Sherlock's and he stared at it, too, then realized he'd torn it from the funeral leaflet. _Oh, fuck, Jesus—just let me—_ and John had taken it away, crumpled it up, and shoved it in the pocket of his trousers. Then he'd asked Sherlock for his mobile and entered his new contact information, erasing the old. Sherlock had nodded again, accepting his mobile back, and thanked John for coming to the funeral and being supportive. John had left with a sour feeling in the pit of his gut, but now that he knew Sherlock had a wife, father, brother, daughter, uncles, and cousins to help him out—not to mention Mrs. Hudson—he felt his obligation to Sherlock at an end. If Sherlock needed John, specifically, he could call.

That had been almost two months ago. John had not heard from anyone in that time, except for Mrs. Hudson who rang him shortly after the funeral. She confessed to getting his number from Sherlock, and apologized to him for having tried to push the issue of his and Sherlock's relationship. John forgave her, his voice rather stiff. He'd never been particularly close to her and hadn't much liked the way she fussed over Sherlock as though he weren't a grown man perfectly capable of caring for himself. That, of course, was before he knew what Sherlock was like when it came to caring for himself.

Sherlock, he told himself firmly, was not his problem. Regardless of the thorn of dread that had lodged itself at the top of his spine when the weeks went by without hearing from Sherlock.

John shouldn't have been surprised, then, to get a knock on his door on a Saturday morning in early June, and opened it to find—huh. Okay, that _did_ surprise him, actually.

"Hello, John," Audrey said. She looked pale and harried, and distinctly uncomfortable. Audrey was wearing a blue t-shirt, white stretchy pants that came to just below her knees and white plimsolls, which John hadn't seen since primary school. She fidgeted with the keys she held in her hand. "I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but I wondered if I might talk to you about Sherlock?"

John nodded his acquiescence, eyebrows raised, but didn't open the door any wider to let her in.

"Okay, um," Audrey said after a moment, looking frustrated with his hostility but determined to put up with it. "I was wondering if you might stop by Sherlock's flat?" When John didn't say anything, but indicated with raised eyebrows that she should continue, she actually gave him a shaming look. She sighed deeply and continued on. "He's not doing very well, and I think a visit from you would cheer him up."

"I told him to call me if he needed anything and I haven't heard from him, so why are you here?"

This time Audrey actually slumped while rolling her eyes, managing to convey both exasperation and exhaustion. "He doesn't want to _bother_ you, he says. He quote _made my bed and now I have to lie in it_ unquote."

"He's right about that," John said with a smirk.

"Please," Audrey said with a firmness that they both knew meant _I'm begging you because you're being an arsehole._

"I'll text him," John said, and shut the door in her face, which gave him a childish thrill. She'd never been anything but polite, though reserved, with him (for obvious reasons) and at the funeral she'd enthusiastically confirmed that she and Sherlock had initiated the process of a divorce. _But we'd known that for ages. He moved out six months before he met you._ John suspected she was trying to _help_ Sherlock's case, which made no sense.

He wondered why everyone around Sherlock seemed to think that John was being silly not to have forgiven him and moved back in so that things could continue as they had before. Naturally, this made John very suspicious of anyone associated with Sherlock and their motives in trying to hook them back up. Sherlock was surrounded by people who loved him. John was not. John's mother _and_ father were dead, twenty-five years ago this year, and he'd only seen his sister once after he got back to London. They hadn't spoken after that, except when she sent him a brief text letting him know she was moving back to Birmingham where they'd lived with their aunt after their parents had died.

John waited until Saturday evening to text Sherlock.

_How are you doing?_

The response didn't come until right before John went to bed.

_Doing much better than at the funeral. Thanks again, by the way. How are you?—SH_

The polite question threw John off and he felt his hackles rise slightly.

_I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?_

This time there was no response, and John harrumphed in irritation. See, now he was waiting in vain for Sherlock to answer. _Pathetic_ , he told himself. _So much for friendship_. John threw his mobile down on the bed, and jumped up. He was going to shower, go out, and get laid.

~*~

At midnight, John found himself in an alley behind a skip, bent over the body of a willing twenty something kid with the most luscious arse John had ever had the pleasure of sticking his dick in. The kid was quiet, but his enthusiasm was not in question, as he propped his hands against the dirty stone wall, and pushed back on John's cock, pulling him in with one slow glide. John hadn't had his dick in anyone's arse in a few years—he couldn't even remember the last bloke he'd fucked. Sherlock, unfortunately, didn't bottom —his prostate was too sensitive, and the only time they'd tried had been a disaster, leaving John equal parts peeved and guilty, and Sherlock almost obsequious in his apologies. As a doctor, John knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault—some men really did feel uncomfortably overstimulated when their prostate was touched. Sherlock didn't even like having it touched from the _outside_ , which was one of John's favorite things to do with his tongue when going down on a man.

That just made it that much more pleasurable to be pushing himself inside the beautiful arsehole of a kid probably fifteen years younger than him (and wasn't _that_ an ego boost—a handsome kid like that could've had anyone in the club).

"I'm gonna come," the kid whispered, both hands still pressed flat against the wall in front of him. _His name's_ Andrew _, not_ kid _, you arsehole_ , John said to himself.

John took the hint, gently urged the kid's— _Andrew's_ —legs further apart, and began making quicker and more shallow thrusts. Andrew came with a whimper as he tried to keep himself quiet—they hardly needed an ASBO for public indecency.

"Can I keep going?" John tried to ask softly, but it came out a croak from his parched throat. He cleared it, and tried again.

"Gimme a few seconds," Andrew said—still a whisper. John began counting in his head, and when he reached fifteen, Andrew nodded.

John picked up again with deeper, but slower thrusts, ones that didn't press directly on Andrew's prostate. He'd achieved a humming state of pleasure, and he felt like he could go all night. "How many times can you come like that?"

"Like what?"

"Without anyone touching your cock."

"God, I don't know—twice is the most I've ever done," Andrew said, taking one hand off the wall to push back his sweaty hair from his forehead.

"Let's go for three," John said wickedly.

Andrew looked over his shoulder at John's smirk, and shook his head, laughing breathlessly. "Knock yourself out," he said.

John wrung four out of him before he was begging John to stop. John pulled out and came over the kid's magnificent arse, to which Andrew said, "Ta for that. Now I've gotta go home with my pants stuck to my backside," but his peevishness was obliterated by his limp, nearly melted, fucked-out state. He could barely keep himself standing, so John pulled his pants and jeans up for him, tucked him away, and zipped him up. Then he stared at the cum-stained wall with pride.

"C'mon," John said, pulling Andrew away from the wall where he was leaning. "I'll pay for a cab and drop you off. Where to?"

In the taxi, they were silent, but after he'd gotten back the use of his body, Andrew leaned over and whispered in John's ear, "Blokes my age don't know how to fuck for _shit_. You, on the other hand—you are one brilliant bastard, and I want your number."

John chuckled, and handed over his mobile. "Why don't you give me _your_ number instead," he said, but Andrew shook his head. "What, and wait by the phone for you to call?"

"Just give me your damn mobile," John said, grinning, feeling like he wasn't _alone_ for the first time in months. There was no future with a kid Andrew's age, even if John wasn't still stupidly in love with Sherlock. Yet it would be nice to have a regular partner for sex, especially someone with such a _fantastic_ arse.

They exchanged numbers and John left him at the flat he shared with two other blokes. Back in his bedsit, John stepped into the shower, where a sudden fit of sorrow overtook him. What the hell was he doing fucking kids in alleys? John had a few one night stands under his belt, but those were handjobs or sucking cock, not full on anal sex in a fucking alley. _Jesus_. No matter how many orgasms John had given him, the kid deserved to at least be fucked in a proper bed.

But the idea of taking his thirty-eight year old self off to have sex with a twenty-four year old in the flat he shared with two other men in their early twenties, just made him feel dirty—and not in a good way. The idea of bringing the kid back _here_ , though, where he would see how very little John had accomplished in those thirty-eight years made him feel pathetic.

John pressed his forehead against the tile wall in his shower and allowed the warm water to wash away his tears.

~*~

John spent Sunday in bed all day, watching TV and sleeping. Since being summarily ejected from the brief but perfect life he'd shared with Sherlock, John's depression had almost disappeared, but it still came back occasionally to bite him in the arse. Today was one of those days. John didn't think he'd ever move past the hurt that was losing Sherlock, and didn't bother denying to himself that his offer of friendship to Sherlock wasn't given largely to keep some connection to him.

But he'd only had one month with Sherlock, and it had been _three_ months since he left. The ache had loosened some of its hold. Like the depression, though, there were little memories that could knock him out with a punch that came out of nowhere. Every once in a while he did what he was doing then—he let himself feel every fucking miserable bit of his heartache as a way to check how far (or how little) he'd come. It was like opening a steam valve. He could function like a normal, well-adjusted, not heartbroken man the rest of the time, if he allowed himself a day to let all his pain and rage out. At first, he had many of these days, and he'd spent them wailing into his pillows and failing to eat or drink until his eyeballs felt like they'd been rolled in sand, and his mouth tasted disgusting from mild dehydration. He'd eat a few biscuits, gulp down three glasses of water, one after the other, and then sleep like the dead. When he woke up, he'd put on his game face and soldier on until the next time he needed to open the valve.

It had been two weeks since he'd needed a day like today, and he knew it had been brought on by texting Sherlock, and then fucking what's-his-name in the alley. _Jesus_. He'd thought he was getting so much better. _I am, I am_ , he told himself. _You just got thrown off by last night_. So, no more fucking twinks in alleys, and definitely no more texting Sherlock unless he texted first. Only then would John respond. And he'd be cool, too, in his responses. Like it was nothing to him whether Sherlock opened up communication or not. It wasn't at all true and wouldn't stand up to even the most cursory of Sherlock's examinations, but it was what John had to hold onto, and dammit—he wasn't going to let it go.

~*~

John's vow lasted until he was off work the next afternoon. He told himself he would just stop by Sherlock's flat to see how he was _since I didn't hear back from you Saturday night_. Maybe he'd even bring Audrey up, let Sherlock know that she had seemed worried about Sherlock. If Sherlock looked like his normal self, he'd definitely bring Audrey up. If he didn’t, then he'd say the other, about not hearing back from him Saturday night. Yes—that's exactly how he would play it.

The street door was locked, and, of course, John no longer had a key so he rang the buzzer. It was at least a minute before Mrs. Hudson answered it. She looked tired, worn down, older than he remembered. She was so shocked to see him that she stood there for a few seconds with her mouth hanging open before she greeted him and ushered him inside.

"I'm ever so glad to see you, John. You have no idea what—" she stopped herself from saying whatever had been on her lips. She smiled weakly, avoiding his eyes. "Well. At any rate, he'll be happy to see you."

John started up the stairs, but she stopped him, and said, "I've got some scones just out of the oven. Wait here and I'll get you to take them up."

John waited dutifully at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at the first landing, hearing nothing but silence. In itself, silence wasn't necessarily indicative of trouble—Sherlock could spend hours in his mind palace, absolutely still, the only sound that of his breathing. The silence still felt ominous to John. Maybe it was nerves.

Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat and handed John a warm plate wrapped in aluminum foil. He made a hum of pleasure at the smell. Mrs. Hudson patted him on the arm, and said softly, "Get him to eat something, will you, John? You could always entice him to eat. He's just—a few scones would do him a world of good." She turned to go, but then came back and gripped his arm, "And, uh, John—if you could convince him to let me up to tidy the flat, I'd be very grateful. He won't let me. Says I'm in his way." John frowned as he watched her retreat to her flat, and then he put his foot on the first step and climbed up towards the flat he still pictured when he thought the word _home_.

John knocked when he got to the top of the stairs, not wanting to walk in as though he still lived there. He could smell old cigarette smoke even outside the door. Sherlock didn't open the door and John didn't hear his voice bellowing _come in_. He waited a bit, knocked again, and called Sherlock's name. Silence. John knocked a third time, called Sherlock's name, and said, "I'm coming in!" and opened the door.

The flat had always been cluttered, maybe slightly untidy depending on whether they had a case on, when house cleaning fell by the wayside. But it had never looked like _this_. The air reeked of cigarettes. There were several ashtrays placed in strategic locations, almost all of which were half full of butts and ashes. Plates of uneaten toast and sandwiches with only a few bites taken were stacked on every available surface, as were at least six cups of half-drunk tea. John looked into a mug on the sitting room table and saw a skin of mold floating in it. He reared back in disgust.

 _What the fuck?_ John didn't know how to process what he was seeing. Even with John gone, Mrs. Hudson would _never_ have let it get like this. She had a key to the flat door, for God's sake, so how could Sherlock keep her from tidying up? Unless—well, unless he never left. John looked down at the scones and then set them on the only available space in the sitting room that looked clean—the seat of his old chair.

John continued to call Sherlock's name as he walked into the kitchen, where he found a plate on the table with moldy slices of something that looked like a peach, or maybe an apricot. The sink was full of dishes. The worktops were stacked with books and chemicals. A pile of toasters in various colors and designs was shoved into the corner of the worktop, presumably acquired for an experiment and abandoned. This was the first time that John thought food made or eaten near the chemicals was safer than anywhere else in the flat.

Sherlock must've gone out, John thought. _But then why didn't Mrs. Hudson come up and clean?_ Even if he was in his mind palace, Sherlock would never be able to ignore three knocks and multiple calls of his name. In fact, he would've shouted something like _must you shout down the whole neighborhood?_ John turned into the hallway to the bedroom, which he could immediately see was dark except for a sliver of light coming from the bathroom. John retreated to the bathroom door that opened onto the hallway and knocked, calling, "Sherlock, are you in there?" He thought he heard a faint sound, a rhythmic snuffling. By this point, John's heart was pounding with alarm. Something was very, very wrong.

"Sherlock!" John said, pounding on the door with one fist while the other hand wrapped around the doorknob. "If you're in there, let me know or I'm coming in without permission!"

There was the faintest, weak-sounding, "John?" that made John's heart seize up in his chest. John gripped the door knob and shoved the door open, eyes immediately landing on Sherlock.

He was curled up naked in the huge Victorian-era clawfoot tub, but there was no water. His hair was greasy, skin sallow, and a patchy beard was growing along his jaw. He looked like he'd lost another ten pounds. His lips were blue and he was shaking.

"Sherlock," John breathed, staring at his former lover, reduced from the powerful, magnetic man he had fallen in love with to a shivering, emaciated wreck. John rushed towards him immediately, reaching for Sherlock's wrist to take his pulse before he'd even thought about it.

"I'm fine, John!" Sherlock yelled hoarsely, trying to grasp the shower curtain to shield himself and stand up at the same time. "Get out!"

"No," John said with the kind of authority that brooked no argument. "I am absolutely _not_ getting out of here. What's going on? And the flat—? Where's Audrey, or Mycroft, or—?"

"Sent them away," Sherlock muttered, focused on trying to stand. John reached for him as he staggered.

"You're bloody _freezing_!" John hissed, trying to hold Sherlock to stop him falling as he got out of the tub. Keeping one hand on Sherlock's waist, he looked for a clean towel, but all he found was a pile of dirty ones behind the door. John growled in irritation, and began shrugging out of his cardigan with one arm, then switching to hold Sherlock with the other so he could get it all the way off. He wrapped it around Sherlock, and then said, "Come on, then. Let's get you warmed up and dressed, and then you're going to sit down and eat some of Mrs. Hudson's scones. And _then_ we are getting this flat cleaned up, or at least get it looking less like the inside of a skip. If it's not too late after that, I'll run out to the shops and get some groceries and things. I have to work tomorrow, but I'll come by after work, okay?"

Sherlock wouldn't meet John's eyes, but he nodded. He looked so ashamed, and small— _reduced_ from the man he had been. He was hunched in on himself, his hands gripping John's cardigan, trying to wrap it around himself. His bottom half was naked, which only added to the pitiful picture he made. Sherlock was lighting up all the parts of John that made him want to help and protect people.

 _He needs me_ , John thought. It wasn't that there wasn't anyone else who _could_ do this for Sherlock, John realized. It was that John was the only person Sherlock had ever been able to be this vulnerable around. John was stunned by the smug possessiveness that gripped him. _I'm the only one who can do this for him_. Mentally, he chided himself. _You're just grateful to feel_ important _again._

"Oh, Sherlock," John said, brushing his hair back from his face. He bent down to look into Sherlock's eyes. "Do you trust me?"

He met John's eyes, and said with fierce conviction, "Always."

John nodded. "Then believe me when I say that we _will_ get through this, yeah?"

Sherlock's only response was a barely there lift at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes looked less glassy, and the bleakness had gone. John took a deep breath, mentally rolling up his sleeves. He was ready to dive in.

It wasn't until he was home in bed that night, utterly exhausted, that John realized that he'd said _we_.


	9. "Take Care of Each Other" (Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> **The following chapter discusses mental health issues. Please email me if you are concerned.**  
> 
> I would apologize for being three weeks late with this chapter, but I believe apologies are only good if you actually _stop doing the thing you're apologizing for._ Therefore, I will stop telling you I'll post anything at any given period of time, when I'm not completely sure that I'll really be able to post the thing when I say I'll post the thing. Better?
> 
> One last thing. From now on, you can assume that when I say, "The chapter count will not go up again," that it's guaranteed that _**the chapter count will go up again.**_ Witness the above chapter count which has, predictably, gone up again.
> 
> Forever guilty and poorly organized,  
> Teddy
> 
> P. S. If you receive an email that this chapter has posted right before the archive goes down, then I'm so sorry, but I had to get it posted before noon.

* * *

Sherlock was raised to believe in God, and the idea had persisted to a greater degree than he would ever admit to, no matter how hard he worked to vanquish the idea. He'd always felt a sort of _presence_ inside him, a loving but also disapproving personality. Now that his mother was gone, that presence was also gone. It was unbearably painful, and Sherlock was not bearing it well _at all_. He was drifting in a harrowing misery, and it rendered everything in his life completely unmanageable.

_You need to see a psychiatrist, Sherlock,_ Audrey had told him. _I've gone through this with you over and over for the last twelve years. You cannot simply suffer your way through these depressions!_

Sherlock missed his mother and John. He missed Louisa. He'd refused Audrey's help and her advice, but she wouldn't let Louisa visit him at his flat. He could come see Louisa, _if_ he could pull himself together for the length of the visit, _and for God's sake, take a shower and eat something._

He was fairly certain that conversation had taken place earlier today, but it was possible that it was yesterday or even the day before. At any rate, Sherlock was attempting to pull himself together, only he didn't know what that meant, so he'd moved on to Audrey's second command and gotten into the shower. Waiting for the water to warm up had taken forever, and he'd almost given up and gone to lie back down, something he spent most of his time doing. When he wasn't smoking, that is.

He'd stepped into the shower, and when the warm water hit him, he was overcome with fatigue, the bone-deep exhaustion of the very depressed. There had been times in his life that he'd wanted to kill himself simply because he was _so—fucking—tired_ that living had seemed insurmountable. That was generally the apathetic phase of his depressions, and yes—they were depressions. He'd called them _black moods_ forever, a reflexive need to retain control over his own mind. When he was fifteen, his mother had taken him to see a psychiatrist, who'd diagnosed him with bipolar disorder. Although he'd gone back month after month, Sherlock only let Dr. Llewellyn help him when he'd ended up so depressed that he didn't have the wherewithal to protest. He'd take the medication, see the doctor for weekly therapy visits, and as soon as he was feeling better, stopped taking the meds and gone back to his sullen, oppositional relationship with his long-suffering psychiatrist.

When he was eighteen, he was legally an adult and responsible for making his own medical decisions. He ended his treatment with Dr. Llewellyn. He hadn't told his parents, he'd simply called the office, and told Dr. Llewellyn's secretary that he was done. Despite multiple phone calls from the doctor himself asking Sherlock to reconsider, or urging him to seek help elsewhere, Sherlock felt no remorse and never answered a single phone call.

The other thing Sherlock could do, as an adult, was tell Dr. Llewellyn that he wasn't allowed to tell Sherlock's parents anything about Sherlock leaving his care. He just wanted to move on with his life, to leave behind the weak boy who'd fallen apart when his brother left for school, who'd had to be taken out of boarding school himself because he was _a very sensitive boy, and emotionally unsuited to the rigorous course of academic study at this school_. What the dean had really meant was _all the kids bully Sherlock and he cries himself to sleep every night because of it._ Sherlock was weak, a failure, a _loser_ , and every time he saw Dr. Llewellyn, he was reminded of that over and over again.

Seven months after leaving the doctor's care, Sherlock tried to kill himself by slitting the veins on the insides of his elbows. He'd done his right elbow first since his left hand was his non-dominant one, and he knew the knife would be slippery with blood after the first cut, so he saved the second for his dominant one. He wanted to make a proper job of it. He was sitting against a tree at the back of the estate property, utterly destroyed by the mundanity and pointlessness of life. When he looked ahead and realized he had to get through another _sixty years_ of this shit, he immediately started planning for his death. He wasn't committing suicide—he was opting out of life. That's it. If life was a gift, he was telling the universe _no fucking thank you_.

His mother found him because she'd been looking for help moving some junk out of one of the spare rooms. She was going to turn it into an art room.  Sherlock had forgotten he'd promised to help her. He'd been hiding his desire to die pretty well, and once he'd had a plan, he'd actually become downright cheerful.

He had already lost twenty five percent of his blood volume when she found him. He was incarcerated (as he considered it) in a mental health facility under section two at his parents' request. Dr. Llewellyn, one doctor from A&E, and another psychiatrist saw to it that they got what they wanted. Sherlock spent seventy-two days wishing he'd gone out to that tree earlier in the day.

Now, the thought of his mother finding his body made him sick, as a father and as a son.

~*~

One minute, Sherlock was lost in the memory of his own failures, and the next there was banging on the door and what Sherlock thought might be John's voice calling for him throughout the flat. He was abruptly aware of being painfully cold. He looked down, and wondered when he'd turned off the water and let it drain from the tub. He was startled out of his contemplation when John shouted through the bathroom door.

"Sherlock! If you're in there, let me know, or I'm coming in there without permission!"

"John?" Sherlock asked weakly.

Then the door burst open and it _was_ John, his face so full of emotion that Sherlock had difficulty sorting out what John was feeling. His eyebrows were turned down towards his nose, his mouth open and breathing hard, eyes squinting as though he might begin to cry.

The horror on John's face brought Sherlock to see his condition from an outside perspective. He was ashamed, and suddenly wanted John anywhere but here, where Sherlock was pale, and cold, and too thin, and ugly, and lost, and his once-brilliant mind dulled with anguish.

Sherlock grabbed for the shower curtain, trying to cover himself. "I'm fine, John," he croaked. "Get out."

John, who had come here—perhaps to save him, perhaps to push him lower, or maybe just because he left his favorite pair of socks behind—reached out, and steadied him. Sherlock swore he could feel the potent power of John's hands already beginning to infuse him with that healing glow that only John could give.

~*~

The next day, long after Sherlock had been beset by John and Mrs. Hudson, first to eat, then to clean, and finally ordered to bed for a decent night's sleep, Sherlock waited anxiously for John. Even though John had promised he would be here after work, Sherlock found himself skeptical. After all, there were plenty of reasons John _shouldn't_ want to see him.

Sherlock still hadn't showered and his self-castigation increased as the hours waned. He still couldn't find the energy to step into the bathroom and shower, but the thought of John finding that he _still_ hadn't cleaned up added to his growing worry.

John might not come at all. Or, he might come, but—disgusted at Sherlock's lack of personal hygiene—leave again immediately after. Or maybe he would come and stay, even though he was disgusted, feeling obligated to help Sherlock because they'd once been lovers.

Sherlock wanted John to stay because he _cared_ , because John forgave him and knew Sherlock needed him. He _yearned_ for John, too, their time together captured in almost perfect detail in his mind, the vividness not having dimmed even in the aftermath of his mother's death. For the last three and a half months, it felt like John had died, too. Grief had infected his mind, grown, spread like an invasive species of plant that puts in roots so deep, you can never unearth it, never rid yourself of it, no matter how many times you cut it down.

~*~

When John arrived, his arms were loaded with shopping bags. He spilled into the flat, awkwardly trying not to let the bags unbalance him. Sherlock rushed to help.

"Thank you," John said, a look of surprise—and _pride_ —on his face. Then he frowned, giving Sherlock a piercing once-over and said, "We need to get you cleaned up after we're done here," as he set the bags on the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said reflexively, setting his bags down, too.

John was putting four enormous, pink-orange apples in the refrigerator when Sherlock spoke. He turned around and crossed his arms, which usually meant he was about to become stubborn and contrary. "Sherlock. You are severely depressed. _Severely_. I'm not going to walk out and leave you here to deal with this yourself."

"You're a doctor—you feel compelled to help people," Sherlock murmured, picking at the cuticle of his left thumbnail, causing it to bleed. John smacked his right hand and snapped, "Stop that." Sherlock looked up at him in shock. John smirked and then said, "Yeah, I feel compelled to help people, but look Sherlock. You are not _people_. I'm not helping you out because I'm a doctor. I'm helping you out because—well, listen," he huffed, lowering his eyes, his mouth turning up in a self-deprecating smile, "I tried to un-love you, all right? But I couldn't. I _can't_. I'm not your lover anymore, but I am your _friend_. I love you. Hell, there's lots of people out there who love you, and want to help, and you keep driving them away, but you can't drive me away. Look, let's make this our daily mantra— _John is helping me because he loves me._ Say it with me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a smile alighting on his face despite himself, and scoffed. "I do not do _mantras_."

"Oh, well, then," John said, looking smug, although Sherlock couldn't figure out why. He turned around to finish putting everything away.

After that momentary brightness, listlessness settled over Sherlock again, and he found himself dropping into one of the table chairs, crossing his arms on the table top, and laying his head on them. He allowed his eyes to drift shut, the puttering sound of John in the kitchen at 221B again, a solacing background noise. He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, John's fingers were browsing through his greasy hair.

"C'mon, then, up," John said, and wrapped both hands around one of Sherlock's biceps, and heaved him up. John herded him into the bathroom, turned the shower on, waited for it to warm up, and then—much to Sherlock's shock—efficiently stripped them both naked. "Oh, don't stare at me like that," John said at the look on Sherlock's face. "I'm not planning on having a grope."

"Might help if you did," Sherlock muttered, and John laughed, which made Sherlock smile. The clawed creature inside him—the void which swallowed everything good—lost a little of its hold. From experience, Sherlock knew this was only a temporary stay, and when it passed, the monster would grip even tighter for a while. But with every loosening of its claws, Sherlock had time to breathe, to regroup his strength, to pull together his resistance. Eventually, he would beat it back into dormancy.

Sherlock's focus returned to the shower, when he felt John smack him with a bottle of shampoo. He looked down at John, his face momentarily slack as he tried to catch up with the plot.

"Wash your hair, you great big git. I can't reach from here."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Right."

At John's behest, he washed his hair, and then a second time, his face, and then John took over, not at all shy about washing Sherlock's genitals or between his buttocks. Sherlock was hardly shy, having been in this exact position at least half a dozen times during the time he and John were lovers, but this time it was embarrassing rather than arousing. John gave himself a perfunctory wash and then bustled them out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where he gave Sherlock a clean t-shirt and drawstring bottoms to change into. With only a towel around his waist, John disappeared into the sitting room and came back dressed in pajamas as well.

"Your clothes—" Sherlock began, pointing his finger.

John glanced down at himself, and said, "Oh, yeah. I brought a bag. Took a week off work. That's alright with you, yeah?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, the sound coming out like _Ohhhhh_?

"Is that all right with you?" John asked, looking suddenly hesitant.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and something loosened in his chest, leaving him feeling safe for the first time in months.

~*~

The first week went by quickly, and the closer they got to the end of it, the more anxious Sherlock became until one night, John turned off the TV, turned to Sherlock, and said, "Out with it."

"What?" Sherlock asked, at that moment having no particular thoughts on his mind.

"You've been fidgeting and running in stops and starts for the last two days. So, what is it that you're worried about."

"I—um," Sherlock said, and stopped. He didn't want to sound _needy_. He'd attempted to phrase this question in his mind numerous times, looking for the one that sounded the least pathetic, but now faced with the opportunity to speak, all his practice abruptly fled.

"You're worried I'm going to leave and not come back, aren't you?" John asked with that direct, slightly irritated way he used when Sherlock was being stupid. "You idiot. Of course, I'm coming back. I've only got to start work again, is all. Two days this week and three the next. I'm going to keep staying the night here until I've got a good bead on how that antidepressant is helping. Then I'll have to start spending the night at my own flat again, or there'll be no point in paying rent anymore."

Sherlock's eyes brightened, but John gave him a quelling look. He didn't even have to say _no_ —it was written all over his face. To his surprise, John looked away and then back, and murmured, "Eventually, maybe. Not—right now you're very—I don't want—ah, fuck. Look, at the risk of wounding your ego, I'll just come out and say it. You're very vulnerable still. I don't want there to be any confusion about us, and if I moved back in there would be."

"Confusion?" Sherlock asked, slightly slack-jawed as he tried to parse what John had said.

"I don't want you to think it means we're getting back together again," John said, and then turned his head away.

"Will there _ever_ be a chance for us to get back together?" Sherlock asked, and then winced, not knowing that was coming out of his mouth until it was already too late. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that."

John scowled. Then, in a waterfall of words, "That is the last thing either of us needs to be thinking about, Sherlock. It's been a _week_. A bloody week! And you've been so depressed, you need my help just to manage your daily tasks." Sherlock winced, and John put his arm around Sherlock's neck, squeezing it comfortingly. "That was _not_ a criticism. That was me pointing out why you're not in any position to think about this. But mostly, you and I always throw ourselves headlong into dangerous situations without thinking about it. We don't know how to put the brakes on. We never even bothered to learn anything about each other before we were fucking. It was fucking terrifying to fall in love with you within days of meeting you, but it was bloody _marvelous_ , too, and I don't know how to say no to you, especially when you're like this, all—all cuddly, and needy, and, and _wounded_. I've swooped in and the flat is tidy, and you've gained a few pounds, and you smile, and your fucking hair's clean and gorgeous again, and it would be too easy to do something stupid. Never mind the fact that I would be taking advantage in the most morally reprehensible way, but it would just be the same mistake all over again, don't you see? And whatever happens after this—after you're _you_ again, well—we're just not going to think about it, okay? Right now, I'm just trying to keep my head, and that means focusing on one thing at a time." John took a deep breath and then looked at Sherlock like he dared Sherlock to contradict him.

Sherlock's mouth opened, then closed again. He raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and said, "You think my hair's gorgeous?"

John laughed, and Sherlock glared at him, so John laughed some more. His laughter made Sherlock smile in wonder—usually John's laughter was sarcastic, but there was pure joy on his face. When he wound down, he sighed and said, "You great arrogant prat," and it sounded like _you are absolutely adorable._

"I was just trying to clarify the salient point of your argument," Sherlock said, mock indignant.

"Oh, well, I know you're getting better, throwing around words like _salient_ , rather than looking at me with confusion, your mouth hanging open like a dog's."

"My mouth has not been—"

"You spent the better part of last week looking at me as though you were confused about why I was here, like I'd popped up out of nowhere."

"Whatever," Sherlock muttered. "I'm _depressed_."

~*~

A month later, John accompanied Sherlock to his mother's grave, where Sherlock broke down in lung-busting sobs, his body suddenly unable to support him. He knew he must look melodramatic, and said so to John, but John said _both my parents died when I was fourteen. I know exactly what you're feeling_. Sherlock had been shaken out of his gasping tears by this new piece of  knowledge. _I didn't know that_. John had said, _No, well, there's lots of things you don't know about me. It's not like we took the time at the beginning, did we?_ Sherlock shook his head, looked at his mother's headstone, and was helpless at the wave of grief that overwhelmed him again. _I've fucked up so many lives_ , Sherlock wailed. John had gotten down on the ground with him, and said, _Now you're being melodramatic_ , and, incomprehensibly, Sherlock heard himself snort in amusement. _She would've liked you_ , he said twenty minutes later, tears spent, held cradled in the shelter of John's arms, his short legs cupping Sherlock's thighs. _You would've liked her, too_. John brushed Sherlock's sweaty hair away from his forehead, kissed it, and said, _I've no doubt about that. She raised you, didn't she?_


	10. "Love Each Other Again" (Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herein, please find the happy ending you all were hoping for. One small epilogue to come and then we are done with this harrowing ordeal and I will never write an angsty story again. Check that... I'll never POST an angsty story again.
> 
> (We all know that's a lie). 
> 
> This is unbeta'd because I just finished it and I wanted to post it immediately and wash my hands of it. ;)

* * *

* * *

Towards the end of July, John and Sherlock were sitting on the couch watching _Doctor_ _Who_. Sherlock was slouched along the back of the sofa, his eyes staring at the back of John's neck, where sparse coarse hairs brushed his nape. John would probably say he needed a haircut, but Sherlock liked John's hair a little scruffy like this. He had a sense memory of his nose pressed there, his breath disturbing the scraggly hairs. The urge to do so now, to bury his face in John's neck, to kiss the tender skin beneath his ear was weighty. Sherlock found himself beginning to bend towards the promise of that familiar gold-brown-silver-almost-even-some-red hair, before pulling himself back.

When the show was over, Sherlock saw John pick up the TV remote and push the off button. Then he turned to face Sherlock and said, "Tell me about your mother."

"What?" Sherlock asked, blinking a few times to clear his head.

"I think you should talk about her. You haven't said anything since we went to the cemetery."

"Are you going to be my therapist now as well as my doctor?" Sherlock asked, but there was no bite in his voice.

"No, I just think you should talk about her. To me. I want to know."

Sherlock sat up straight, and lifted his eyebrows, wondering where to start. "She was compassionate but not—"

"No, don't tell me how she was to the world at large. Tell me what she was like as a _mother_ , what your experience of her is. Tell me some stories from your childhood."

"You mean, like, happy stories? Or—"

"Yeah," said John shrugging. "Happy stories. Sad stories. Funny stories. Any stories." Sherlock felt a little lost—where to start? Finally, after the silence had gone for too long, John said, "Here—why don't you tell me what your first memory was?" and Sherlock nodded, relieved, and gave a slight smile.

"I was six and she was reading to me. I was sitting in her lap. I don't remember the title of the book, but it was an early reader book, for teaching children to read."

"You were six and you didn't know how to read?" John asked, surprised.

"Einstein didn't talk until he was five," Sherlock snapped.

"No, it's fine," John said, shaking his head. "I'm not making fun of you, I just—I mean, I learned to read when I was five. I figured you would be, like, three or something when you learned how to read."

"Mycroft learned to read when he was three," Sherlock said with a sulky face. John laughed louder than Sherlock thought his revelation warranted, and when Sherlock frowned even more, John said, "It's just—I mean, I get why you two are so competitive."

"That's not _why_. We're just both—"

"Arrogant and stubborn?" John asked with a wide grin on his face. Sherlock loved those grins, so with an answering smile, and unwilling to contradict John lest he lose his grin, Sherlock said, "Just so. Are you going to let me finish my story?"

"Oh, yes, yes, sorry," John said, clasping his hands in his lap and arranging his body and face into faux solemnity.

" _Anyway_ —I'd difficulty learning to read in school, so every day when she got home from work—she drove a two hour round trip commute to Imperial College London, so it was almost dark when she was home that night. It would've been in the fall, October or November, because Mycroft had gone away to school in August."

"Gone away?"

"To boarding school," Sherlock said, looking down at his pajama clad lap. He always felt uncomfortable when the subject of Sherlock's family wealth came up.

"Back to your Mum," John said.

Sherlock made a _hm_ noise and nodded his head slightly, took a deep breath, let it out, and brought his eyes to meet John's again, and then he began speaking. "My mother was holding me in her lap, but my legs were so long that they dangled past her knees. I started kicking her shins—not hard, mind you—I was really just swinging my legs slowly back and forth. She told me several times to stop, but I kept doing it. I guess I was testing her, or maybe I just wanted to see what she would do—"

"Already experimenting with people at age six," John quipped, and Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and sighed with exasperation. "Sorry," John said, not sounding very sorry at all. "Continue."

"Finally, she said _Sherlock Holmes, if you don't stop kicking me this very instant, I'll see how you like being kicked in the shins!_ I was absolutely shocked. She never punished us—well, she did punish _me_ , but only in that _I hope you've learnt your lesson_ type way.

"She may as well have announced that she was going to punch me in the face. I was absolutely shocked and hurt. I felt very strongly that she was being unfair. My transgression didn't deserve her to kick me. It was so mean—or that's how I saw it, you know—she was, after all, an adult, which meant she could kick harder than I.

"I yelled _I hate this book anyway!_ and jumped off her lap, ran from the morning parlor to the back door, and out onto the back lawn. I kept running and running, crying and crying, feeling so persecuted. That's exactly how it felt—like I was being persecuted. First, Mycroft went off to school, then Mummy threatened to kick me in the shins for no reason.

"I cried as I ran, and between the crying and the running, I ended up collapsing in the grass somewhere—I don't even remember where, if I ever did—and after my breath slowed down, I fell asleep.

"Mum liked to tell me that I didn't sleep through the night until I was three, but I could take a nap during the day anywhere, regardless of how uncomfortable it was, or whether it was loud and bright."

"I see your sleeping habits haven't changed," John said, barely a smirk on his lips.

"Oh, ha ha," Sherlock deadpanned. "Are you going to keep making little snarky comments or do you want to hear this story? After all, you're the one who asked for it."

"I know, I know," John said, looking contrite. "I'll be quiet from now on."

"Please do. So, it was dark, late at night, probably around ten in the evening when they found me. Mum scooped me up in her arms, cradling me, and she said I told her grumpily that she'd woken me up, and that waking people up when they were sleeping was very rude. I'm sure that was something I'd heard her say. Dad was always very solicitous with us, gentle where Mum was brusque, indulgent where Mum was strict, so I’m fairly certain I didn’t hear it from him.

"When we got inside, she held me close and alternated between scolding me and—and—" Sherlock's voice broke and he put his face in his hands. He felt John's fingers brush through his hair. "She called me her sweet boy, told me how much she loved me, how precious—" The last few words were whispered, that pain in his gut rising up and shaking him enough for tears to drip onto his black trousers, where they disappeared into the fabric. John peeled both hands away from Sherlock's face, and held them in his. Sherlock raised his wet face to John, who let go of one of Sherlock's hands to reach up and flick away the tears with his thumb. He did one cheek and then the other. John's eyes slid to Sherlock's and they held each other's gazes.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered, his heart quick to usher the words out of his mouth before his brain could catch up. Only Sherlock would've been able to see the smile in John's eyes, the softening of his lips and jaw. John reached behind and cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock's head, then brought their foreheads together, and whispered, "I love you, too."

Sherlock wanted to ask _love me how?_ but knew that John would bring up a barrier and lock Sherlock out. He would say the same thing he'd been saying for six weeks: _let's not think about that right now; one thing at a time._

"Will you tell me the rest of the story?" John asked when they'd separated.

"There's not much else to tell, really. It worried me that she was being so, so— _loving_ , I guess is the word I'd use. It worried me just as much as her threatening to kick me frightened me. It was uncharacteristic, and I could only conclude that it was my fault she was acting strange, so I began to cry again, and apologizing over and over. I told her it wasn't her fault, that it was mine, and that I'd lied, I could read that book, but I'd just wanted to sit in her lap."

"What did she say to that?" John asked, absentmindedly running his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles.

"I don't remember, actually. The whole thing had started because I'd lied to worm my way into her lap."

"I'm quite sure she didn't think of it like that."

"No, I suppose not," Sherlock said thoughtfully in a quiet voice, looking at his and John's clasped hands.

"So, if you wanted into her lap, why were you kicking her, d'you think?"

Sherlock thought back to the feeling of his six year old self, still with some of the chubbiness of small children, uncomfortably seated in his mother's lap, hands gripping the outside of her thighs, legs swinging, swinging, swinging.

"Perhaps, I was just bored. I'd lied my way into her lap, but I didn't actually want to read the book. I wanted her attention." Sherlock tilted his head to the side and frowned. "No, that's not it. I think I was being _playful_ , or my version of it anyway."

"Oh, I'm well aware of your version of playful. Basically, you bother people until they're forced to pay attention to you."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, nodding his head. His eyes caught on John's smile. John's smiles were always kind of sardonic, but every once in a while he turned a beaming grin Sherlock's way, leaving Sherlock dazzled and stunned, wondering what he'd done to deserve it.

After they'd smiled at each other for a minute, he told John it was his turn, and John's eyebrows drew together when he said, "My turn to what?"

"What's your earliest memory with your mother?"

John nodded his head, his mouth drawn, and eyes down, as though he'd been expecting Sherlock to ask, but hoped he wouldn't.

"If you don't want to say—"

"No, it's fine. It's fine. I just—they died when I was fourteen."

In a soft voice, Sherlock said, "Yes, I remember you told me, when you took me to my mother's grave."

John tilted his head from one side to the other, then shrugged. They were doing lots of shrugging today. "It's just—I don't really _have_ lots of memories of the two of them, you know. I mean, there are a few, of course, but most of it—" John cleared his throat and swallowed. "Most of it is just, you know, a, um—a consolidated memory, I guess you could say, of our day to day life. It changed very abruptly after they died, so I have very strong memories from the time we learned they'd been in an accident, and the months, year afterwards. It's always bothered me, that. Having bad memories instead of good ones. In medical school, when I did my psyche rotation—a man, one of the doctors in my year—told me or maybe I just overheard him talking to someone else—I don't actually remember. Anyway, he said that we're more likely to retain clear memories of events that cause strong emotion, whether that emotion is positive or negative. I think that—you know, we'd just had a very normal life, no bumps in the road. Small rebellions, especially when we got into our teens, but nothing that would stand out. I loved them. We were a happy family—a boring family."

John rubbed his hands briskly over his face, and when he put them back down in his lap, Sherlock reached out and took his hand again. John looked up at him in surprise, but he could see the gratitude in John's eyes. John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock squeezed back. They kept their hands clasped together.

"There were no strong emotions during your childhood to create many positive memories," Sherlock summarized. "But their death created very strong emotions. You feel you have too many negative instead of positive memories."

"Not enough specific memories that are happy," John clarified. "Like what you just told me about your mother. You know, memories that happened on a specific day, with all the details you described—the time of year, the way you felt, colors and sounds."

"Well, to be fair, I have a better memory than most of the human race," Sherlock said, only partially joking.

John snorted and rolled his eyes, then brought Sherlock's hand up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. Sherlock's breath hitched, and John looked up at him curiously. He could see that John hadn't realized he was doing it, that it had come to him too naturally to be noticed.

"Sorry," John murmured and moved to drop Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock held on, and said, "No, please—don't be. It's—it surprised me, but I like it. It's nice—not nice," he said rolling his eyes at himself, then looking to the right, trying to search for the word that described how it made him feel. "It's _comforting_. It makes me feel—"

"Yes, I know what you mean," John said with a smile in his eyes.

~*~

By early August, Sherlock said he felt well enough to start taking cases again, but John vetoed it, saying Sherlock should wait until he didn't tire so easily. They argued over what the phrase _tire easily_ meant. John said every time Sherlock left the flat, he needed a nap when he came back. Sherlock said he promised to take better care of himself when he was on a case, including actually sleeping and eating, which he felt was an enormous concession that would sway John in his favor. He was dead wrong, and John put an end to the whole conversation by saying that Greg wouldn't let Sherlock work on cases until John gave him the okay.

"You can't do that!" Sherlock shouted indignantly. "You don't have the right to dictate what I do or don't do with my time!"

"Greg asked me for my opinion. As a _doctor_. I gave it to him. That's all," John said, nose flaring.

"Well then I'm firing you as my doctor!" Sherlock cried, his voice rough with anger.

John sighed. He put one hand on his hip and rubbed the other on his forehead, looking down at his feet. This was one of his _Sherlock is being unreasonable_ poses. It communicated all his exasperation and indecision about whether it was worth the time and energy required to pursue the subject. It made Sherlock feel that _he_ wasn't worth John's time and energy.

After that, Sherlock spent a solid nine days in a fit of either anger or petulance. As a result,  John began spending more time at his own flat, and Sherlock felt guilty. He wanted to be contrite, and check his behavior, but he only got angrier.

He was hurt, of course, and even more so when, on a Friday halfway through the month, John told him he had to work a ten hour shift at the clinic the next day, and was going straight home (be which he meant the tiny attic flat he rented in Chiswick). Furthermore, he and Harry were having Sunday lunch with their aunt to celebrate her ninetieth birthday. (This was the aunt who'd moved in with them when their parents died). Then Monday, John had to work _another_ ten hour shift, so he was spending Sunday night at his flat as well, and wouldn't be able to see Sherlock until Tuesday after work. He had a short shift that day and could come over in the early afternoon.

It was the longest Sherlock would go without seeing John since he'd first come to Sherlock's rescue on the twelfth of June. Sherlock took the news without any outward display of emotion, but inside he felt anxiety spiraling up, gaining momentum.

Sherlock was losing John. Now that he felt better, John felt his obligation was coming to an end, and they would return to the way they'd been when John had left him in March—John pretending Sherlock didn't exist, and Sherlock left in an agony of longing. Would he long for John like this forever? Could he ever love anyone else now that he knew what it was like to love John Watson? There weren't any more John Watsons in the world, of that Sherlock was positive. There was only one, and Sherlock had lost him as a result of his betrayal and indecision.

From that Friday morning to Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock found himself alternating between numb apathy and manic anxiety. When it was the first, he would start something—a book, a television show—and drift away after fifteen minutes, nothing holding his interest. He ended up sleeping a lot. He didn't get dressed or leave the flat. He had no appetite and only ate in anticipation of John's return, knowing that would be the first thing John would ask about.

When he was anxious, on the other hand, he got dressed and left the flat, walking aimlessly around London, smoking until he couldn't stand the taste of his own mouth and felt dehydrated. Then he would stop wherever he was, and locate the nearest shop or restaurant so he could buy himself something to drink.

Tuesday, a few hours before John said he would arrive, Sherlock broke into a frenzy of activity. He cleaned up the flat—not just tidying, but actually vacuuming, and doing all the dishes, wiping down the worktop, and all the tables with a damp flannel, as well as cleaning up any spills. He made his bed and put all his dirty clothes in the hamper, then put away the rest of the stuff scattered on his floor. Not that John was going to spend any time in Sherlock's bedroom, but if he _did_ , at least it would be clean.

Of course, Sherlock was torn between whether it was better to be pathetic—in which case John might start spending more time here again—or to look like he had his shit together—in which case, John might feel his duty done, and go away for good. There was another potential outcome, though. Once John saw that Sherlock was better, he'd tell Greg to let Sherlock go on cases. And once Sherlock went on cases, he could seduce John into coming along. And once he'd seduced John into coming along on cases, he might seduce John back into his bed. And then everything would be the way it was before except there would be no lies between them. A new start.

With that in mind, he took a shower, shaved carefully, and dressed in trousers and a dark blue shirt that John always said brought out the blue in his eyes. He even put shoes on and dried his hair with a blow dryer, styling it as he went, maximizing the curl factor. (John had always said that Sherlock was worse than a girl when it came to primping, to which Sherlock had replied that they couldn't all be scruffy, sexy, big-dicked army doctors who seduced men left and right with nothing more than just a cheeky smile. John had preened like a girl being told she was beautiful, which Sherlock gleefully pointed out).

~*~

When John showed up Tuesday afternoon a little earlier than what time he'd said he would, Sherlock was in the kitchen watching the kettle boil so he could make tea for the two of them. Sherlock looked up with a smile as John came into the kitchen, but his smile faded at the serious—almost severe—look on John's face.

"What is it?" he asked, his heart beginning to pound. This was it. John was cutting ties with Sherlock again.

By now, he should've known better than to make assumptions where John was concerned. John often acted completely out of character. So when John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him, he was stunned into stillness.

"What?" Sherlock asked uncertainly against John's lips. Apparently, John felt Sherlock wasn't getting the picture because he grabbed Sherlock's face in his hands and pressed their bodies together and kissed Sherlock in that way that meant _this is definitely not an Only Friends kiss; this is the kind of kiss that usually leads to sex._ Sherlock was glad he'd cleaned his room.

They melted together with the ease of long time lovers even though it had been five months when they'd last kissed and only a month before that when they met. When they came up for air, John said, "God, I missed you," the words escaping on a heartfelt groan. Sherlock knew that he could throw all his doubts out the window. He and John belonged together, _forever and ever, amen._

"I love you," Sherlock said. Then, quickly, before his brain caught up with his mouth. "I cleaned my room."

"Is that so?" John asked, and laughed. "Did you make your bed, too?"

"I did," said Sherlock with a proud nod of his head.

"C'mon, then, let's go mess it up."

"Really?" Sherlock breathed, eyes open wide.

"Yes, really. Absolutely. Oh, before I forget. I love you, too."

"Does this mean you're coming home?" Sherlock asked as they meandered towards the bedroom.

"One thing at a time, remember?" John said with a sexy smile. Sherlock grumbled until John began undressing him, and he could no longer find anything to complain about.


	11. "Epilogue" (Louisa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! We're at the last chapter. As you can see, Louisa is weighing in on the haps since we last saw Sherlock and John.
> 
> Warning for awful sappy mushiness, which I actually kinda hate writing, but, you know. Louisa said, "Teddy! Teddy! Can I tell them what happened? Please, please, oh, pleeeeeez?" and I sighed and said, "Fine, but don't embarrass me. I'm a Very Serious Writer and focus my writing on Deep and Complicated Human Relationships." She said, "Yeah, yeah," and I instantly regretted giving her this chapter. But, you know. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
>  **Can I have everyone's attention, please?** I want to thank my wonderfully dedicated and brilliant team of beta readers: **Jenn, Katie, and Tia!** (Yes, it takes three people as well as myself to put the stories out there because, you know. Me.)
> 
> Without these three women, my stories would be disjointed, overly dramatic, choppy, and probably abandoned because I would definitely grow disheartened. My regular readers have heard me say over and over again that Jenn, Katie, and Tia make my writing better, but I'm serious about this. You just have NO IDEA some of the trash I write. 
> 
> Being a beta reader is a very time-consuming and oftentimes frustrating job, for which one earns ZERO DOLLARS, and unlike the writer, betas don't have their names front and center for everyone to point at and say, "This person is an AWESOME and TALENTED writer!" They work behind the scenes in the same way an editor does.
> 
> They are my cheerleaders, my squealing chorus of "Yasssss ohmygod you totally have to write that!" My sounding boards. My marriage counselors. My friends. Recipients of rants on many, many subjects. My dictionaries/thesauruses/providers of "what's that word?" They proofread. Analyze style. Correct grammar. They're unapologetically honest with me when I'm not putting out my best work. They answer questions I've asked a dozen times before.
> 
> A beta reader (at least mine) must be - patient, discerning, educated, available at odd times and for odd reasons, confident, well-read, and practical. They must also be willing to sooth their writer's nerves, encourage her when she's down, guide her when she's lost (and not just in the manuscript either), be firm when she's whining, and gentle when she's not.
> 
> Jenn, Katie, and Tia are **incredible and brilliant women**. Should I ever become a professional writer, I would insist on bringing them along.
> 
> Thank you girls for being all of this, and a beloved addition to my life.
> 
> (From now on, I'm just going to copy and paste this at the end of all my stories if that's okay with y'all?)

* * *

_From the journal of Louisa Violet Holmes, age 8_

It's Christmas Eve, and we are at Nana's house but she is not here because she died nine months ago. I ~~probly~~ probably should not say it like that. But it is true and I miss her ~~alot~~ a lot and when it was time to put the tree up, Grandad cried and said that Nana loved to decorate for Christmas. That made me cry too because Grandad is always happy but he's been sad since Nana died. Even though Nana is not here with us I am excited because I know what Dad and John bought for each other but they do not know! So I am the only one who knows! So I bet you want to know what there presents are? Well you will have to wait because there is a story behind it.

The story begins when John moved in with Dad during half term so this was ages ago. Dad kept telling John that he was ~~practly~~ practically moved in already and John was an idiot for paying rent on his poopy little flat in Chiswick. (Dad ~~actualy~~ actually said a bad word instead of poopy but this is a kid friendly journal, lol.) I asked Mum why John did not want to move in with Dad? Did he think Dad was too ~~weerd~~ weird to live with or something? This was like right after school started and I had only met John once. I did not know him well enough to decide if I liked him or not. I adore him now of course because he is so cool. He talks about things with me that make Dad's face red though that is not the ONLY reason I adore him :)

ANYWAY, after John moved in with Dad I heard Mum tell Aunt Caroline that it was ABOUT TIME and she had worried for months that John would not forgive Dad for lying. When she got off the phone I asked what Dad lied about to John and Mum said: Well he did not tell John he was married to me (meaning Mum). I asked: Well what does that matter? and she said: Because Dad and John were boyfriends and you can't be boyfriends with someone if your ~~alredy~~ already married to someone else. I asked: how did you know when someone was your boyfriend? Is it when you have sex? (I said SEX because I knew it would make her face red just like when I say that kind of stuff to Dad. ~~Johns~~ John's face ~~doesnt~~ doesn't turn red when I say words like SEX but he says ~~thats~~ that's because he's a doctor and doctors don't get ~~embarast~~ embarrassed about ~~bodys~~ bodies and ~~there~~ their functions.) Mum said: That you could have a boyfriend but not have sex with him and that is VERY interesting for when I have my own boyfriend. Then I asked Mum if it made her sad that John and Dad live together since John is the reason they got a divorce. Mum ~~nelt~~ knelt on the floor and said very ~~sersly~~ seriously that John did not make Mum and Dad divorce he was just a CATALYST. (That means a person or event that quickly causes change or action to happen.) Mum is happy John and Dad live together now because she wants Dad to be happy because she loves him. She is just not IN LOVE with him. I asked what the ~~diffrenc~~ difference is but she ~~couldnt~~ couldn't explain it then she said that STUPID THING adults tell kids when they ~~dont~~ don't want to explain something— ~~YOULL~~ YOU'LL KNOW IT WHEN IT HAPPENS. That is not helpful AT ALL.

I asked John: What it ~~ment~~ the ~~diffrenc~~ difference between JUST LOVE and IN LOVE. Was it that you had sex with the person you are IN LOVE with? Dad ~~wont~~ won't tell me stuff like that and he says John has NO SHAME and that I am a CHILD and talking about sex is i ~~naprpriet~~ inappropriate. John told Dad it is better for him or Dad to answer my ~~questchuns~~ questions because we (meaning John and Dad) can at least give her (meaning me) the correct information. John was very serious when he said this and there was loads of other stuff he said but I ~~stoppd~~ stopped listening after that.

Later he told me that there are some questions he will not answer like How do you get rid of a body? That is the kind of question Dad would ask, lol.

 I get to stay with Dad and John every other week and John helped me decorate my room. It used to be his room but now he sleeps in Dad's room because they HAVE SEX. (John said that clearly I am the one who has NO SHAME, lol).

So that is the story of why John and Dad ~~bot~~ bought each other ~~SECRT~~ SECRET Christmas presents. After we open them I will tell you all about it and ~~probly~~ probably also about the presents I got if ~~there~~ they're cool.

_Christmas Day, 2018_

The first thing you must know is that John ~~poofread~~ proofread what I wrote yesterday and today so you will see LOTS of mistakes. I asked him to ~~poofread~~ proofread because Christmas Eve was a ~~MOMENTUS~~ MOMENTOUS ~~OCCASHON~~ OCCASION and I wanted to record it for ALL ~~POSTERIER~~ POSTERITY. ( ~~posterier~~ Posterity means all the people who come after you are dead.) He's watching me write this and he said it's not ~~poofread~~ but PROOFREAD. That is when someone else reads what you wrote and fixes all the mistakes you make.

Oh my God John just read something and it is SO FUNNY! John says that the word for all the people who come after you is POSTERITY not POSTERIOR because POSTERIOR means your bum! I guess John will have to proofread this again! He says I have terrible handwriting and I told him his jumper is ugly. He laughed because he ~~doesnt~~ doesn't get mad at stuff like that. He is SO COOL.

The second thing you should know is that I know I ~~promist~~ promised I would tell you about the presents Dad and John gave each other last night but I ~~didnt~~ didn't get a moment to myself. After we ~~opend~~ opened presents I was ~~to~~ too ~~tird~~ tired to ~~rite~~ write.

The third thing is that there is a story about why I knew about the ~~secrt~~ secret presents. YES, ANOTHER STORY!!!

About a week ago I was snooping in Flat C. That is where Dad keeps all his experimenting stuff. John told him he would not allow Dad to keep all his body parts and chemicals in the kitchen if I was going to come over, so they bought a new refrigerator and Dad took all of his stuff downstairs. I was looking through Dad's refrigerator to see the body parts and in the freezer was a brown bag. I opened the brown bag and there was a fancy box in it tied with a gold bow. I undid the bow and looked inside the box and it was a ring!

I knew Dad wanted it to be a ~~secrt~~ secret because why else would you put a ring in the freezer? I ~~new~~ knew it was not a present for me because I ~~tride~~ tried it on my fingers and it ~~didnt~~ didn't fit. So I DEDUCED it was a present for John. When Dad got home from wherever he was I told him I needed to talk to him in private and I could see John's feelings were hurt because he is the one I ~~ushually~~ usually talk to about stuff that you have to talk about in private. I took Dad up to my room (because I had taken the box up to my room) and asked Dad What is this ring for? He told me I was ~~uttrly~~ utterly ~~exasparating~~ exasperating and that I did not know how to mind my own ~~bizness~~ business and I was a terrible snoop. I just waited for him to finish ranting (that's what John says to do when Dad is on one of his rants because he will ~~eventully~~ eventually run out of steam but John said: Do not tell your Dad I said that). When he stopped talking to me ~~thru~~ through his teeth I asked: Is this for John? and he said: Yes it is an ~~engajment~~ engagement ring. An ~~engajment~~ engagement ring is a ring you give to someone when you ask them to marry you!!! DAD WAS GOING TO ASK JOHN TO MARRY HIM!!!!! That is ~~defintly~~ definitely a ~~MOMENTUS~~ MOMENTOUS ~~OCCASHUN~~ OCCASION!! (Also I told Dad he was a terrible snoop ~~to~~ too and he said that is true.)

Let me ~~discrib~~ describe the ring to you because it was PERFECT for John because he is a doctor. It's a ~~silvr~~ silver band with a ~~thinr~~ thinner band of gold around the ring and it has two snakes climbing up a stick and then there are wings at the top and it goes all the way around twice so you have to turn the ring to see all of it. It is called a CADUCEUS and it is a symbol of doctors.

Dad told me if I told John before he ~~culd~~ could open it he would ground me for the REST OF MY LIFE!!! I laughed and he said ok I will take away your laptop FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!! He kept saying that he would do this and that FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE and we were ~~laffing~~ laughing SO MUCH!!!. Then John ~~nockd~~ knocked on the door and asked if he could come in and Dad hid the box in my desk ~~droor~~ drawer and said come in and John put just his head in and asked if we would eat ~~reesoto~~ risotto for supper and we said YES at the same time and John said we both looked very guilty but he would not ask why because he ~~new~~ knew he would ~~probly~~ probably not like the ~~anser~~ answer.

BUT IT GETS BETTER!!!

A day later John asked me to talk to HIM in private and Dad gave us a look but we went up to my room again and then John said he was buying Dad a ring for Christmas!!!! A RING!!!!!!!!!!!! John wanted to ~~now~~ know if I would go with him to the ~~joolry~~ jewelry store to see it because he was having ~~douts~~ doubts about it. I asked him if it was an ~~engajment~~ engagement ring very cool like I ~~new~~ knew about these things and not that I just ~~lernd~~ learned it the day before. He made a face and said Yes but do you think Sherlock will think it's too ~~sentimentl~~ sentimental? I asked did he ~~alredy~~ already have a ring picked out and he said yes it is a ~~kustm~~ custom made ring and that means IT IS THE ONLY ONE IN THE WORLD! Just like Dad is the WORLD'S ONLY CONSULTING DETECTIVE! So you see ~~its~~ it's a ~~perfct~~ perfect ring for Dad. I told him I would be HONORED to go see it. John said you must keep this a ~~secrt~~ secret ~~beecuz~~ because I want to ~~suprise~~ surprise him on Christmas Eve. I said Of course John I would NEVER tell a ~~secrt~~ secret and I ~~wudnt~~ wouldn't because I loved that I was the ONLY ONE WHO KNEW BOTH ~~SECRTS~~ SECRETS!!!! I was so excited all week.

I went to the ~~joolry~~ jewelry store with John and he showed me the ring. At first I did not get it AT ALL because there were just these ~~weerd~~ weird words all the way around the ring written in VERY VERY SMALL print. John told me they were ELEMENTS and if you looked them up on the PERIODIC TABLE ~~there~~ their CHEMICAL SYMBOLS spelled I love you. He got a little pad out of his pocket and a pencil and wrote down all the words on the ring. I still ~~didnt~~ didn't get it so John took out his phone and found a ~~pikshur~~ picture of the PERIODIC TABLE (it was a chart and not an actual ~~tabel~~ table). Then he pointed his finger at each of the squares where those words were found and then he wrote down their chemical symbol. He gave me the note he wrote it on so here I will write it out for you.

Iodine—I

Luteum—Lu

Vandium—V

Yttrium—Y

Oxygen—O

Uranium—U

Then he put all the letters together and it ~~spelld~~ spelled I LuV YOU!!!!! He said that Dad would ~~probly~~ probably know what the chemical symbols were without looking them up on the periodic table but if he ~~didnt~~ didn't then at least it would keep him busy for a few minutes. LOL! John ended up ~~bying~~ buying the ring with my ADVISEMENT (that is the word John used and it means I was INSTRUMENTAL in helping him make his ~~desishun~~ decision).

Last night was Christmas Eve and Dad and John said they were giving ~~there~~ their presents to each other AFTER ~~everywun~~ everyone else. I did not think I could take it ANY LONGER because all Dad's cousins and Uncle Mycroft and Aunt Caroline and all of my cousins and Grandad were there and it was just TOO MANY ~~PEEPLE~~ PEOPLE!!! I ~~didnt~~ didn't think we would EVER get to Dad and John's presents!!!

Wait before I tell you what happened when they opened their presents I want to tell you what John got me for Christmas. It was a REAL DOCTOR'S BAG!!! Not a play bag for kids but a REAL ONE!!! The STETHOSCOPE in it had my name on the part that goes around your neck. I may have shed one or two ~~teers~~ tears at such an awesome present. I used the stethoscope on John and said I can hear your heart and he said Oh yeah what's it saying and I said It's saying I love you and I was ~~nervus~~ nervous about telling him that. He looked ~~suprised~~ surprised and then he said My heart is telling you that you love me or that I love you? and I said Both and he grabbed me in his arms and squeezed me really tight. I think he may have shed a ~~teer~~ tear or two as well.

Then we come to the ~~MOMENTUS~~ ~~OKASHUN~~ MOMENTOUS OCCASION! I said that I wanted to be the one to give them their gifts from each other and so I picked them up and handed them to each other at the same time. They looked at each other all funny like they were ~~shokd~~ shocked and I told them to open them at the same time so they did. Dad said to John I was going to ask you to marry me! and John said to Dad I was going to ask YOU to marry ME! and then there were LOTS of ~~teers~~ tears being shed!! They were ~~laffing~~ laughing. We were all ~~laffing~~ laughing and they ~~kissd~~ kissed and we all ~~cheerd~~ cheered and then they hugged me and the whole family wanted to hug them too so they had ~~evrywun~~ everyone coming where they sat to hug them. No ~~ofens~~ offense to ~~anywun~~ anyone but watching ~~evrywun~~ everyone hug Dad and John got ~~borng~~ boring really ~~kwik~~ quick.

_From the Journal of Louisa Violet Holmes, age 8_

_New Year's Eve_

I have made a MOMENTOUS DECISION. I have decided I want to call John something other than John now that he is going to marry Dad because if someone is married to your Dad and they are also a man its like they are your Dad too. I cant call them both Dad so I am going to look that word up in the thesaurus and see what other words I can find (I know how to spell thesaurus and dictionary really good because John told me I cant look any words up unless I know how to spell them).

Okay, here is the list of words I found

Father, Daddy, Old Man, Pa, Pater, Sire, Pop, Papa

Father—thats what you call a priest and John is definitly not a priest because priests dont have sex, lol!

Daddy—ugh! Daddy is what little kids call there Dad!

Old Man—well I dont think John would apreshiat me calling him an old man, lol!!!!

Pa—sounds Irish but maybe?

Pater—I dont even know what that means

Sire—I don't even know what that means eether

Pop—maybe

Papa—when I wrote this down I thawt it was like someone would call their dad if they were from like history like 1980 or something. But now that I am looking at it again I think I have found the TOTALLY PERFCT name to call John!! I want to tell him RITE NOW but you know I think it will be my wedding present to him. (I'm not getting Dad a wedding present because he's already my Dad and that's enuff of a gift).

 

**Author's Note:**

> Email me at archiveofmyown@gmail.com if you have questions about the tags or anything else. You can also message me on [Tumblr](https://iamlampyao3.tumblr.com/). If you follow me on Tumblr you'll also get updates and sneak peeks on stories! 
> 
> *** This johnlock story was made possible by my beta team, the incomparable Jenn, Katie and Tia, without whom this story would not be possible. They are the best friends a writer could have and spectacularly good at making all these stories so much more than they would be otherwise.**


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